


Rules and Narrow Margins

by Mimizuku9



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Bullying, Fluff, High School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimizuku9/pseuds/Mimizuku9
Summary: AU. 1957. When friendship blossoms between social outcast Ivan and weary bullying-victim Yao, their lives take a turn for the better - or so they think. With Arthur's debate club, Alfred's eccentric shenanigans, and the cruelty of their peers, life at Oldbrook Academy is nothing short of 'trouble'. RoChu. USUK.





	1. Looking for Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story contains offensive language from the outset.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: The story is rated as 'Mature'. This is mainly for graphic descriptions of violence (nothing too gory, though), and offensive language throughout. This story takes place in 1950s America, so do bear that in mind when certain characters say certain things - e.g. racial slurs. My intention in using them is simply for character development and world-building.  
> Lastly, all character names are the ones Hidekaz Himaruya has either officially assigned or suggested for each character. Macau, however, has yet to be assigned one. I've decided to use 'Jin' as his human name (again).
> 
> Anyways - read on! And I hope you enjoy this story :)

Yao’s head knocked back onto the wall with a sickening thwack. Pain exploded and hit him like a wave, crashing into him as a fist punched his jaw. Yao bit his tongue, the familiar taste of blood in his mouth. He forced himself not to cry out from the pain, not to give into the sneers, to the poisonous words they spat.

_(Welcome to Oldbrook, chink.)_

Yao slid down onto the ground, dizzy with nausea as the punches and kicks kept on coming, the pain throughout his body throbbing and pulsing. A pointed shoe jammed into his ribs, and this time Yao could not hold back his own strangled voice. He cried out and felt tears prick his eyes. Only laughter rang back at him.

Yao already hated this town. His first day here at Oldbrook Academy, and already he hated it. Hated his own trembling body, too, which betrayed him as he crumbled to the floor of the bathroom corner. Fighting back was tiring. Fighting back only prolonged the pain. Yao knew that, he knew it so well – yet his hands still clawed at them, legs kicking back against incoming hits. It was the one thing he could do.

When his limbs ached too much to move, he fell limp, drifting in and out of consciousness until the gang grew bored of him. Unimpressed by the blood on their knuckles and the trembling state of Yao’s shoulders, they left with footsteps trudging heavily and words echoing with careless menace. But Yao couldn’t hear them, could only hear his own panting breaths, the gentle drips of the water faucet as pain stretched out the moment. It stung, bruised and ached everywhere.

Yao grabbed the cold sink and pulled himself up, looking into the mirror and only feeling annoyance at the sight. His white shirt had been soiled by spots of blood and dirty shoe marks, his hair dishevelled and cheek growing red and swollen. A broken mess.

Yao washed the blood off his hands and face, pressing a cold wet paper towel to his swollen cheek to ease the pain. The early morning light streamed in through the tiny bathroom window, a mocking reminder that Yao had somehow managed to run into trouble before the lunch bell could even ring.

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao flinched when his swollen cheek stung against the wet paper towel. He would have to go through the rest of the day like this – bruised and battered like a boxer who had no chance of winning to begin with. He would have to walk into his algebra class, a class full of strangers, looking like a bloodied mess. He would have to, and once Yao decided upon this, it didn’t matter how he felt. Things like this happened. It had not been this bad in Vienna, no… But America was a different place entirely. _Oldbrook_ was a different place entirely, it seemed.

The bell rang. Yao threw aside the wet paper towel and gathered up his books. He hurried out into the school hallway.

Empty. He was late – as if his first impression wouldn’t be bad enough already. He quickly paced down the hallway, realising with a tightening of his stomach that he didn’t even know where the classroom was. He glanced at the classroom door names, hoping they would guide him.

 _Room A9, where is it? A9, A9, A9…_ But the numbers on the doors seemed to skip over it, an A8 and then straight to A10. Yao turned the corner, frantic as the seconds passed. _Where is it?!_

‘You okay there, man?’

Yao turned around. A blonde student was standing there, gazing curiously. Like some kind of pathetic reflex, Yao’s stomach clenched, as if expecting a punch to the gut from this guy. But the guy was only standing there, brows knitted in confusion – perhaps even pity – when only a feeble croak escaped Yao’s mouth.

‘A9…’

Blue eyes lit up behind glasses. ‘Oh! Yeah, that’s… It’s right through here, man.’ He began to walk down the hallway, past these double doors Yao had missed. ‘Name’s Alfred. What’s yours?’

‘Yao.’ He cleared his throat, following behind. ‘Are you in my class?’

‘Uh… I don’t think so. I’m in the eleventh grade.’

‘Same here.’

‘Really?’ Alfred halted in his steps, turning around to give Yao an incredulous look. ‘You’re kidding me!’

Yao frowned. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Ah, no I didn’t mean it like that!’ Alfred said. ‘I mean… like, you don’t look like… an eleventh… grader…’ His voice grew hesitant, shoulders tensing up as if he was walking on thin ice. ‘Sorry?’

‘Just take me to my class,’ Yao said. He felt increasingly conscious of the bruise on his face, certain the guy knew exactly why it was there but was choosing not to say anything about it.

‘S-Sure thing.’ Alfred turned back around, walking a little more briskly this time. When they had reached a door with ‘A9’ printed on it, Yao felt relief sweep over him.

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem, man.’ Alfred waved and walked away. It was only then that a tiny spark of curiosity hit Yao, realising he hadn’t asked what _Alfred_ was doing in an empty hallway during class time. But the feeling was fleeting, and perhaps too quickly it was replaced with a twisting dread in his stomach. He opened the door, a large class of students turning their heads towards him. The teacher barely paused, continuing on with her lecture and merely giving Yao a glare.

‘S-Sorry,’ Yao croaked out, heading straight for the back of the class towards an empty desk. He sat comfortably in the worn, wobbly seat, not caring for the obscenities scratched into its wood or of the curious glances of his classmates. He was here, he made it. And no one had shone a spotlight on him, at least not for long. He fell into the lesson like it were a blanket of safety, gladly feeling lost among the other student’s bored faces.

‘Complete the problems on the board. You have ten minutes,’ the teacher said. She left the room, and as soon as the door slammed shut behind her the class seemed to sigh in relief as a whole. Loud chatter filled the room, but Yao found himself burying himself into his work instead.

A finger prodded his arm, stinging one of Yao’s bruises. ‘Hey.’

Yao bit back a complaint. He pursed his lips and looked up at who could, potentially, be his ally in this school.

‘Where are you from?’ A student with curious, ink-black eyes gazed at him. His hair was gathered into a low ponytail.

‘How about asking for my name first?’ Yao said, unable to hold back the snap in his voice. He tried courtesy and kindness this morning, he tried ‘nice’ the first hour here at Oldbrook Academy. All it got him was a swollen cheek and a bruised rib.

‘Alright, alright.’ The student smiled. ‘My name is Yong Soo. I’m from Korea – uh, South Korea, just so you know. What’s _your_ name?’ The smile, Yao noted, was cheeky and reeked of trouble. No, not an ally. A bothersome, he was sure.

‘My name is Yao,’ he said. Yong Soo nodded, not saying anything as if expecting more. Yao felt a prick of annoyance and continued on. ‘I was born in China, but I’ve moved around a lot.’

Yong Soo’s eyes glistened with excitement. ‘That sounds cool! You know, a lot of the kids here don’t even know the difference between like… us, you know. They think we’re all from the same village or something!’ Yong Soo laughed. Yao only offered back a polite smile.

‘But, uh…’ Yong Soo’s smile dissolved from his lips. ‘Listen. If they call you a ‘Jap’, or ‘chink’ or whatever other names they come up with for you, don’t like… don’t fight it, okay?’

Yao frowned, wincing when the noise level of the room was almost shrieking in his ear. A paper airplane zipped across the room. ‘What do you mean, don’t fight it? We’re supposed to just-’

‘Look, I know where you’re coming from,’ Yong Soo said, leaning closer. ‘Trust me on that. But if you want to make it by the end of the school year in one piece, just keep your mouth shut and move on. You got that? I’m only gonna tell you once, okay, because you’re not the first and I’m kinda sick of telling the new kids this.’

‘It shouldn’t be happening here. This isn’t a slum, or downtown, it’s a school. A private one! An international one, too!’ Yao lowered his voice, wary of being heard even among this chaos. ‘We’re supposed to be welcome here.’

A smile tugged at Yong Soo’s lips, one of tired amusement. ‘What, you thought because this was a private school, people were gonna treat us any differently?’ His eyes trailed over Yao’s swollen cheek. ‘I think you’ve learned that lesson already, Yao.’

The door burst open, the classroom falling silent as the teacher walked back into the room. Her barking voice dominated the room once again, but it wasn’t her words Yao was hearing. No, it was those first words of welcome, ringing in Yao’s ears like the start of a boxing match.

_(Welcome to Oldbrook, chink.)_

Yao pressed his pencil into his notebook, letting the lead snap and crumble beneath the pressure. He could already feel the bruises that would scatter his body throughout the months, the punches he would get, regardless of whether he minded his own business or not. In scratchy handwriting, he scrawled three words at the top of his page.

_Welcome to Hell._

This was going to be one bloodbath of a year.

* * *

Ivan drew the knife around, scraping it against a hard surface as he stirred the lumpy mess. It reeked, unpleasant to smell, unpleasant to even look at. But he was too afraid to look up. He would rather take in the sight of this mess, than look up at the faces that were surely glaring at him. Ivan swallowed hard.

‘Hey.’

Ivan snapped his head up, only to realise the call was not for him. A student walked past him, striding up to a nearby table to confront two other students. His voice had a crisp, British accent.

‘I thought we were having a meeting.’

One of the seated students, bespeckled and larger built, burst into a chuckle. ‘It’s the first day, Arthur. You thought people were gonna turn up?’

‘I put notices all over the school. There’s a lot of preparation to be done for the tournament.’

‘You need to relax,’ a smoother voice cooed, coming from the mouth of a long-haired male whose top shirt buttons were left hanging open. ‘Let us enjoy our youth, _non_?’

‘Shut up, frog! I’m not forgetting the stunt you pulled on me this morning!’

‘You looked like you needed something to wake you up, so naturally-’

‘I don’t think trying to grope me in the middle of the morning announcements is the natural response by any means, Francis! So if you don’t mind-’

The two seated students caught Ivan’s gaze. A smile tugged onto Ivan’s lips, the first thing he always did when caught staring. It was the friendly thing to do, wasn’t it? And it wouldn’t be so scary anymore, he was sure, if Ivan only took the first step forward towards making some friends –

The students turned their gaze away from Ivan, discomfort on their faces. Their voices lowered to whispers, and Ivan’s resolve crumbled. Embarrassment settled in as a burning flush across his face, and he could only glance back down at his food, the disgusting lump they called ‘lunch’.

 _It’s always hard at first,_ Ivan reassured himself. _Always hard to make friends, but it can be done… It can be done._

Ivan pretended to eat, shifting the food around and mixing it into a smoother mess. The whispers behind him continued. Ivan had tried, but sometimes trying didn’t change a thing.

Giving up on the tray of food, Ivan adjusted his scarf, tightening it around his throat. It gave him some comfort. A preoccupation, when Ivan did not know what to do with himself, with these fumbled and calloused hands, with a gaze that was never welcome. But the scarf could only do so much. Ivan looked up at the cafeteria clock. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the beginning of lunch.

Ivan withheld a sigh. The day was passing by too slow. Would all the others be like this, he wondered. The first day alone had been too much for his nerves to bear, how was he going to handle an entire year of this? Two years, even, if Ivan did well enough to continue at Oldbrook Academy. Ivan looked back down from the clock, catching the eyes of someone staring at him from across the room.

Startled, Ivan blinked. Ink-black eyes were gazing at him, dark and piercing. But there was a brightness about them as well, shining like the curious glance of a cat. It wasn’t unease, it wasn’t discomfort or disgust. It was something other, and it drew Ivan’s breath almost to a stand-still.

But the moment flickered, the eyes slipping away from Ivan’s before he could even think to respond. A chattering student leaned to the side in his seat, obstructing Ivan’s view of the dark-eyed student.

 _They all seem to belong,_ Ivan thought with a sinking feeling. Even the cat-like eyes that had glanced at him. They were among other pairs of dark, ink-black eyes. On one table, a group of girls in matching cardigans and poodle skirts, their hair curled into swirls and perked up ponytails. On another table, a rowdy crowd of boys in leather jackets. And next to Ivan’s empty table, the three blonde boys, whose voices had returned to loud banter and argument. Everyone had a place, it seemed. Ivan just didn’t seem to fit into any of it.

Lunch passed by painstakingly slowly, Ivan’s lunch a soup by the time the bell rang. Relieved to leave the cafeteria at last, Ivan made his way to his next class, only to play the tiresome waiting game once again. When the lesson had ended and the bell had rung again to signal the start of fourth period, Ivan’s stomach fluttered in anticipation. Only History left to endure, and the day would be over.

Ivan walked into a bustling classroom, heading straight-away for a desk at the back. He sat at the desk and opened up his notebook, only to catch sight of a boy sat near the front, a dark pony-tail draped over the shoulder.

‘Alright, class. Behave and we can _all_ go home on time,’ the teacher said as he walked in, slapping a binder onto the teacher’s desk. ‘Open up your books and take notes. Let’s not waste time sharing names and holding hands, shall we?’

The teacher began to scratch words onto the chalkboard, students bowing their heads down to copy them down. But Ivan didn’t. His eyes were stuck onto the boy at the front, the one he was sure was staring at him during lunch. Wasn’t he?

The boy lifted his head to glance up at the chalkboard, head turning slightly to follow the movements of the teacher, who was now pacing around the room as he talked. It was then, that Ivan could see the familiar ink-black eyes. It was then, that Ivan could also see the red swell on the boy’s cheek.

_(Stop… please…)_

Ivan diverted his gaze to the empty page on his desk, feeling as though he had peeked in on something he shouldn’t have seen. As if he had pried open memories that weren’t his, though they felt familiar to his own.

_(I’m sorry.)_

Wasn’t that what Ivan had whimpered as a child, when the other children chased him and hit him with sticks, or threw stones at him? Only he didn’t know why he was apologizing, or what good it would do him. Perhaps sorry he couldn’t be someone else, sorry his name sent mouths twisting in distaste. America wasn’t a good place for strange names. Ivan had learnt that early on in this country.

Stealing a glance back up at the boy, Ivan wondered what strange, foreign name had earned him a swollen cheek. He wondered how it was that those dark eyes remained focused, gently blinking as if having forgotten the moment of pain, of being beaten. He wondered why the boy had chosen to sit at the very front in spite of the bruise, in spite of the judging glances he might get.

The hour passed by much too fast this time. The final bell rang, and though Ivan had been looking forward to it the entire day, he did not want to leave his seat just yet. Students eagerly picked up their books, desks screeching across the floor as they pushed their way out.

‘Hold on, class – I said, hold on!’

Few students bothered to remain. Among them was Ivan, who really was more interested in the boy at the front than what the teacher had to say.

The teacher sighed, a piece of paper in his hands. ‘Well, anyway. For those who stuck around to _listen_ – there is a debate club meeting next Monday. For those of you interested, the meeting is in the music room during lunchtime. First-timers are welcome.’

The boy’s eyes brightened, a glimmer of cat-like curiosity in them once again. Ivan felt a strange sense of accomplishment in catching sight of it, as if having witnessed a rare moment that was hidden to everyone else. As if the subtle spark in those dark eyes was something only Ivan could see – invisible, unapproachable Ivan.

‘Alright. Class dismissed,’ the teacher said, sarcasm coated thickly.

Almost too soon, too quickly, the boy left the classroom. Ivan was left fumbling with his books, hugging them to his chest and hurrying out. But as soon as he left the classroom, he was almost hit by the wall of students, a crowd swarming like bees. The boy was gone, his eyes out of sight. Ivan’s chest sank as he pushed through the crowd.

_(For those of you interested…)_

A tiny spark of hope sprouted from Ivan’s heart, jittering within his chest like it might burst out from the mere idea. The music room at lunch. He might just be able to approach those eyes if he were to go. The thought felt risky somehow – the boy might just turn away from him in discomfort like most people did. But then… maybe not. Maybe that same curious glance would greet him, that same expression of innocent interest. The possibility was too tempting to ignore.

He stepped out into the hazy heat of September, the afternoon sunlight glaring down on him. Too warm for a scarf, but Ivan didn’t care. Even as he walked away from the school, even as he walked alone into dirtier and rockier roads, into shabbier parts of town – Ivan could not forget the sight of those dark eyes.

* * *

The afternoon heat beat down on the bus, boiling up a sweat inside its stuffy interior. Arthur sat on a sun-scorched seat, and for once found himself longing for rain. He was so sick of the sun here, glaring and all encompassing, piercing through the leaves of the aspen trees.

The last two years in Oldbrook had been hellish for Arthur, more so in a mountain of small nuisances than anything major. For instance, the sun. Yes, the sun was one of many pests in Arthur’s life. He had loved it at first, lapped up the precious warmth he could only fleetingly enjoy back in England. But within the first sweat-drenched week, he had grown utterly sick of it.

Perhaps the same could be said of Alfred. Oh, yes… Alfred and his bright smile and big ideas. Charming in small doses. Bloody annoying when it was anything more than that.

Arthur sighed as he leaned his head against the hot glass of the window, spotting one of the new kids hopping onto the bus. His face had been marred by a red swell, and Arthur was not surprised. Foreigners, though formally accepted by the school, were not welcome here. Arthur himself, had received a punch or two the first few days he had been here, for nothing more than ‘speaking funny’.

But those were his early days at Oldbrook, and though he stuck to his way of speaking, he had eventually earned the respect of his peers. Or rather, he had gleaned off the respect his peers gave _Alfred_. Though he would never admit it out loud, it was his reluctant friendship with Alfred that kept him safe from bruises. The boy had stuck onto him like chewing gum, for whatever reason. But Arthur wasn’t stupid enough to pry him away. Alfred kept him safe. With Alfred by his side, Arthur was untouchable. Because no one picked a fight with Alfred, no one dared to mess with the son of a lawyer who could put you in jail for treason sooner than you could holler ‘mistrial’.

Alfred liked to think it was because he was likeable, that he was strong. Both true, Arthur agreed with that. But what they didn’t speak of between themselves was the effortless way in which Alfred had cruised by the school years without much effort, without consequences for playing truant and failing several exams.

So perhaps in a selfish way, Arthur stuck close to him for that. It wasn’t unusual – everyone here was clawing for survival. Rich or not, predators walked among everyone.

The bus rocked slightly, the engine kicking up a strangled noise as the bus driver turned on the ignition. But the doors were still open - musty, humid air seeping in.

‘Will ya hurry up! I’ll close the doors if ya don’t get in!’ The old bus driver screeched. ‘Come on, Frenchie! You too!’

Francis hopped onto the bus, a smooth smile on his lips. Who exactly he was trying to charm, Arthur didn’t know. What he did know, however, was that as soon as pale blue eyes met his, the smile had grown past its pleasant charm and straight to lewd. Arthur groaned.

_Please no please no dear God don’t let him sit next to me please don’t –_

Alfred got onto the bus, the doors shutting behind him. He looked over Francis’s shoulder and towards Arthur. Alfred’s eyes glimmered, mouth opening as if words were just about to spill out. Alfred had something to say today – when didn’t he? – and Arthur was going to be his audience. Arthur pushed out a slow exhale. He didn’t want either today. He didn’t want to be groped, but he didn’t want a headache either. He wanted to be alone, for once. To sit in peace, _for once_.

_Pick your poison, Arthur. It’s going to be one or the other._

When Francis approached him, Arthur made his decision. He dumped his books onto the seat next to him. ‘Sorry, frog-eater. Seat’s taken.’

Francis cooed in disappointment, grabbing hold of the back of Arthur’s seat when the bus began to move. ‘Is my handsome presence too much for you to bear?’

Arthur could feel the judgemental glares of the other students. Francis seemed oblivious to it, unaware he was giving the predators a free pass at beating the hell out of the two of them. Arthur could only think to snap back as vehemently as he could to save his own skin, when Alfred butted into the conversation.

‘Move it, Fran. Seat’s mine.’ Alfred jostled past Francis and shoved the books aside to sit. His smile was bright as ever, a sign that he had a _fantastic_ story to tell – meaning, the kind of story that was most definitely going to give Arthur a headache. Francis chuckled in amusement, perhaps pleased with the dread on Arthur’s face, and moved to take a seat behind them.

‘Arthur, man. You are _not_ going to believe it.’

Arthur sighed, looking outside the window and watching the dust being kicked up as the bus drove out of the school yard. ‘Try me.’

‘Alright, but you gotta listen for real this time, okay?’

‘I always listen, Alfred.’

‘I know, but like… with an open mind, ya know?’ A shoulder bumped into Arthur’s. ‘And open eyes, too.’

Arthur drew in a tired breath, turning his head to look at Alfred. ‘I will do my best.’

Alfred’s smile widened. ‘Okay, so… You know how I’ve been telling you about these flying saucers-’

‘Oh, don’t you start again with the bleeding aliens again, Alfred!’

‘You said you were going to listen!’ Alfred whined, puppy-like distress on his face. But Arthur had grown a second layer of skin for that, had long ago learned not to give in to it.

‘I said I was going to do my best.’

‘Are you still angry about the debate meeting?’

‘Who said anything about debate?’ Arthur frowned.

‘Look, I’m sorry I forgot, okay? But I will totally make it up to you! Both Fran and I-’

‘I want no part in Francis’ apology, thank you.’

Francis pressed his face between the seats, the tip of his nose poking between Arthur and Alfred. ‘You would be missing out…’

‘Will you mind your own business?’ Arthur smacked the nose away. ‘And Alfred, I am _not_ angry about debate, mostly I would just like a day where I don’t have to listen to your ramblings about little green men and their tin foil spaceships. Enough is enough!’

‘But I saw one _just now_!’ Alfred said.

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Yes, I did. Just before I got onto the bus.’ Alfred leaned closer. ‘I saw it in the sky, it was like… this black triangle. And it was watching us, man! It was watching and I _saw_ it!’

‘You bloody didn’t!’

‘Why don’t you believe me?’

‘Because you’re the only one that saw it, Alfred. What about Francis? Did he see it? He was outside with you, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah, but-’

‘But what? It disappeared before he could turn and look?’

‘Kinda?’ Alfred’s voice faltered. ‘But, Arthur, it _was_ there! It really was! You think I’m lying?’

Arthur sighed, leaning back into his seat and crossing his arms. ‘No, Alfred, I don’t. You saw what you saw. But it’s not what you think it was. It could have been a bird, or your eyes adjusting to the sunlight-’

‘You know what, Arthur? Forget it.’ Alfred turned away, crossing his arms as well. ‘Forget I ever told you.’

‘Fine.’

‘Good.’

‘At least I’ll have some peace and quiet.’

‘Enjoy it, man.’

Arthur pressed his head to the window, finally free of Alfred’s voice. But the quiet sat uncomfortably, with guilt even though Arthur had only told him the truth. What good would it do to lie, anyway? Harsh as it was, the truth was the truth. Aliens weren’t real, flying saucers weren’t real, not even the rose tinted world Alfred saw was real. None of it. Arthur would have to be the one to show him that.

The bus stopped, and for a moment Arthur didn’t even realise it was his stop. Students started to leave the bus, the new battered kid among them. Arthur climbed over Alfred, who refused to budge.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Alfred grumbled. Arthur sighed.

‘See you,’ Arthur echoed back, stepping off the bus and onto the pavement. The bus rumbled and drove away, thick exhaust fumes trailing behind it. He walked in the blazing heat of afternoon sunlight, down the road which was as picturesque as an Oldbrook neighbourhood could get. Aspen trees sparsely lined the road, yellowed leaves bristling in the breeze. The houses looked like they had come out of a catalogue, white and smooth, perfect porches and shiny cars in their driveways. And in the middle of it all, Arthur could see the scrawny new kid trudging along, carrying books that were too heavy for his size.

Arthur had to admit he was a little surprised. Most residents on what was famously dubbed ‘Millionaire’s Row’, were Americans through and through. With the exceptions of course, of students like Arthur, whose father worked at the British embassy nearby. He wondered if the kid was in a similar position, living under the pressure of a diplomat’s lifestyle, constantly moving from town to town, from one unfamiliar place to the next.

The kid dropped his books, muttering a tired curse as he started picking them back up. Arthur caught up to him, picking up a book.

‘Here.’ Arthur handed the book back.

Near-black eyes looked up at him, reminding Arthur of a cornered animal. The kid took the book, muttering a thanks before hurrying away. Arthur stood there for a moment, watching the quickened pace of the kid, the way his head was held up high in spite of the tiredness the rest of his body showed. The breeze picked up, sunlight having become an intense orange glare since the school day had ended.

Arthur continued to walk, thinking of the bruise on the kid’s cheek. The sight of him was so very much like Oldbrook, somehow. Perfect seeming on the surface, beautiful almost. But there was also a kind of hell twisting and turning beneath, scratching its way out. Though the bruise would fade, Arthur was sure the ghost of it would stay for much longer. It was in small ways like this that Oldbrook showed its true colours – of black and blue. And it was for people like Yao, that Oldbrook unleashed its cruelty upon.

But the thought was only for a moment, and soon Arthur was lost in his own plans for tomorrow, the preparations he would have to make, the new schedule he would have to adjust to. Little problems, small nuisances that would pile up bit by bit. Life expanded out in front of his eyes in a predictable manner, orderly and clear. But, knowing Oldbrook, Arthur was sure that yet another hellish year was lying ahead of him.


	2. Stuck On You

The football field was baking beneath the heat, patches of yellowed grass crunching as sneakers trampled over it. But not Yao’s sneakers. He was sitting on a creaky bench instead, watching the rest of the class complain with every barked order and whistle. Not that he wasn’t suffering – his ribs ached with every breath, feeling as though his lungs could burst if he did as much as gasp. Bruises still scattered his body, turning from red to black over the days. His swollen cheek had subsided, but in its wake it left a purple bruise, which spoke for itself when he had asked the P.E. teacher if he could sit out for today.

Yao, the battered kid. That was his rank at Oldbrook now. Though he hadn’t been beaten since that first day, he was sure it wasn’t the last time he would be bruised. No, the first week had been just for show. The first week was hectic in that way, because everyone was trying to figure out where they fit on this food chain now that the summer had passed and new faces had turned up. That was what this bruise on his cheek was all about, a brand on Yao to tell him he was at the very bottom of this food chain. Down with the bugs that crawled in the dirt and scavenged on decay.

( _Welcome to Oldbrook, chink_.)

The whistle screeched, and the class began to run along the edge of the football field. Yao watched the students pass him by, among them Alfred’s familiar face, panting and trying to talk at the same time to a student running by his side. Lagging behind them – a ghostly pale student with a large build. Yao recognised him as the kid he had been looking at during lunch, to his own regrettable curiosity. Now the glances and stares were being thrown back in Yao’s face, lilac eyes trained on him whenever they happened to come across each other.

In the classes that they shared (which Yao had come to learn was quite a few), he was always seated behind Yao, slightly to the left – presumably so that he could catch a glimpse of Yao’s face whenever he could. The feeling of being watched was suffocating, inexplicable; all Yao had done was glance at him, that was all it was. Pale like a ghost, hair an odd shade of silvery blonde. He had seen him seated alone during lunch and Yao was just…

The whistle shrieked among Alfred and his running partner’s voices. ‘Shut it, you two! Pick up the pace! And you too, uh… Kid with the scarf. Didn’t I tell you to ditch that thing?’

The student slowed down and halted.

‘Y-You did, sir,’ the pale faced student panted, his hand reaching up hold the scarf as if it might be yanked away from him. His voice had a heavy accent, his words spoken with shy uncertainty.

‘Then take it off!’

The student hesitated, taking in a gulp of air. ‘But-’

‘I’m not negotiating, I’m not asking. I’m _telling_ you. Take the scarf off. It’s not for running. Leave it on the bench.’

Lilac eyes looked over towards Yao, a quiet kind of timidity in them. Yao diverted his gaze, pretending to be more interested in the dried up grass by his feet. He didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Yao had just been curious on that day in the cafeteria. It had just been curiosity – and _only_ curiosity. Yao had not known who this ghost-like student was, had not known why he was alone or why he was looking back at Yao with that look – that look as if Yao had smiled at him or something. Yao didn’t. He was sure.

So why was this guy looking at him like that?

The air around his skin cooled, a shadow looming over him. Yao looked up and found the student standing by him, his tall frame blocking the sunlight. The student gingerly placed his scarf onto the bench. Yao opened his mouth to say something – though what exactly, he had no idea – only to be quickly bathed in glaring sunlight as the student walked away.

‘What’s your name, kid?’ the teacher asked as the student made his way back to the field.

‘Ivan Braginsky.’

‘Ivan…’ The teacher flipped the page over on his clipboard and marked something down. ‘Alright. Get back on the field, Ivan. You can get your scarf back after class.’

Ivan joined back up with the rest of the class, which had now become more spread out along the edge of the field. Further away, a line of students were cutting across the field.

‘Hey!’ The teacher yelled, sending students flinching. ‘Hey, what did I say about taking shortcuts? Get back on the line! That’s another three laps for everyone!’

Students groaned and complained, their pace growing lazy. But Yao’s attention was still trained on the student that had approached him, the way he moved as if unsure of what to do with his large frame. The student nearly dwarfed the majority of his classmates with his height, but his demeanour didn’t reflect it.

Yao turned his gaze towards the bundled scarf next to him. Curiosity once again, Yao thought glumly, though he was unable to help himself. He wondered why someone would wear a scarf in heat like this. It must have meant something to him, to cling onto it. Perhaps even hiding a birthmark or scar.

He stole a glance at the ghost-like student. No, not a scar. At least, Yao hadn’t _noticed_ one when he had taken the scarf off. Not that he could be entirely sure, because he wasn’t looking all that hard at his throat to begin with.

Sweat prickled on the nape of Yao’s neck, the sun beginning to bake him alive where he sat. Yao wiped away at the sweat, though once he was aware of the heat he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Just like the curiosity, and the ghost that had made itself at home in Yao’s head.

* * *

In the empty hallway, the trickling of piano notes echoed out. But Arthur couldn’t care less, only feeling irritation at the sound of his own panting breath.

‘We’re _late_ ,’ Arthur said, walking down the hall in sweat-drenched clothes. Alfred caught up to his pace, with that stupidly bright smile on his face.

‘It’s your club, man. Just say it wasn’t supposed to start until-’

‘It’s ten past three. I say we’re late.’

‘Jeez… Okay, man. Whatever you say.’

Arthur sighed, catching sight of the music room door with a pinch of annoyance. The first meeting and he would have to lead it out of breath, his shirt half-drenched in sweat and reeking of the grassy field outside. It wouldn’t make a very good impression to the younger students, no…

‘I apologise for the delay-’ Arthur burst into the music room. The gentle music halted, and a lone chuckle rang out.

‘It is no problem, Arthur,’ Francis said, his fingers raised above the piano keys. His smile widened. ‘You and Alfred were busy. I can see that.’

‘We just had P.E., you dolt. Keep your perverse remarks to yourself.’ Arthur slung his bag onto the floor. ‘Where is everyone?’

Francis shrugged. Alfred laughed and pat Arthur’s shoulder.

‘Sorry, Artie. Looks like no one came around this time, either. But hey, at least you got Fran and I! Right?’ Alfred flashed a smile at Arthur, one that somehow, in some strange logic of Alfred’s, was supposed to make everything just fine. It did anything but.

Arthur pursed his lips. ‘Thank the bloody heavens.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Arthur slumped into a nearby chair and eyed the clock on the wall. If they ran they might just be able catch the bus home. Arthur considered the idea, beginning to give up on the thought of running a debate club this year. It had been around last year, though its numbers were small and mainly consisted of seniors. But even then, no one quite enjoyed it the way Arthur did.

There was something about speaking on that podium, of having complete and undivided attention on you. It was a rush he couldn’t get from sports, an audience he couldn’t get anywhere else. When he spoke on that podium, Arthur’s words mattered – regardless of how unremarkable the subject might be.

But that all meant nothing if there were no members to begin with, no one to compete with.

_You can throw the tournament dream into the bin, Arthur. A team of three won’t cut it._

‘Right.’ Arthur sighed as he stood up. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I’m going home. Feel free to join me – Alfred, I mean. Frog-eater is welcome to stay overnight and watch for new recruits.’

The piano playing came to a halt, the piano chair screeching as Francis got up. ‘Wait, don’t leave me!’

‘No, Francis… I think you could be of use for once.’ Arthur picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. ‘Come on, Alfred.’

‘Bye, Fran…’ Alfred ruffled Francis’ hair as he passed him by.

Arthur grabbed the door handle, just about ready to collapse and sleep for a good twenty years once he got home. He yanked the door open, looking forward to his comfortable pillow, the sweet ignorance of being asleep –

Arthur halted. A student was standing in the doorway. He recognised him as the battered kid that lived on his street, only now the red swell had faded to purple.

‘Sorry for being late.’ The student walked in, dropping his books onto a desk. ‘I couldn’t find the room… This is the debate club meeting, right?’

The student looked to Arthur. Serious. Interested in debate. Arthur dropped his bag.

‘Yes! Yes, this is the debate club meeting! Please sit!’ Arthur darted a glance at Alfred and Francis, watching their expressions grow into disappointment. Arthur waved his hand for them to sit.

‘There goes the bus ride home, man…’ Alfred grumbled, slumping into a seat. But Arthur barely heard it, barely gave it a second thought – because four members was enough. Four could make a team. Four could make an entry into the state tournaments.

_Thank the bloody sun and everything beneath it, I’ve got a debate team. I’ve got a debate team. I’ve got -_

‘What’s your name?’ Arthur asked the new kid, clearing his throat and trying to contain the smile that wanted to break out on his lips.

( _I’ve got a debate team)_

‘Yao,’ the student said, taking a seat as he looked around the room. ‘Is this really where we’re meant to debate?’

‘It’s only temporary.’ Arthur waved his hand dismissively. ‘Anyways. Yao, my name is Arthur. This over there is Alfred –’

Yao nodded, looking over at Alfred. ‘I know. We’ve met.’

‘I still can’t believe you’re an eleventh grader, man,’ Alfred said.

‘You’re an eleventh grader?’ Arthur asked.

Yao frowned. ‘Why is that such a strange thing?’

‘Well –’ Alfred started. Arthur interrupted him.

‘N-No reason, Yao. Don’t worry about it.’ Arthur shut the door. ‘I should also introduce you to, uh…’

Francis’ fingers travelled across the piano keys, a melody ringing out like a fanciful introduction. ‘Francis Bonnefoi. It is a pleasure to meet you, Yao,’ Francis said, a smile on his lips.

‘You can call him frog-eater, Yao,’ Arthur said. ‘He doesn’t mind.’

‘Don’t listen to him, _mon ami_. He has always been jealous of me, of my beautiful hair...’

Yao darted a glance at Arthur and Alfred. ‘I thought this was a debate club.’

‘And it is!’ Arthur said. _Bloody frog-eater cocking everything up_. ‘It most certainly is! And we’ll get started right away, Yao. This won’t be every meeting, I promise. Today is just introductions and the basics! I’ll… I’ll just get started.’

Arthur cleared his throat, picking up a piece of chalk and beginning to scrawl onto the board. ‘So first I’ll just briefly outline what each member of the team does…’

Ten minutes passed by as Arthur explained, though he didn’t feel it. He had gone through the basics, of the roles and what was to happen in each meeting. By the end of it, Francis had busied himself on the piano, and Alfred had been staring at the small window on the door the entire time – but Yao had remained attentive. It was more than Arthur could ask for.

‘…All that’s left for today, really,’ Arthur continued on, ‘is to set up next week’s debate. Does anyone have a motion for next week?’

‘You know…’ Alfred drawled out, his head lazily tilted to the side as he sunk into his chair.

‘Yes, Alfred?’

‘Someone’s like…’ A giggle sprang to Alfred’s lips. ‘Someone’s been watching us.’

Arthur frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Have a look outside, man. He’s been walking by the room so many times I lost count. Is that creepy or what?’ Alfred laughed, his body almost sliding off the seat.

‘Really?’ Francis glanced over to the small window of the door. Yao leaned to the side to have a look.

‘He’s not there now. But I bet you he’s _just_ around the corner,’ Alfred said. ‘Okay, just like. Watch the door for a minute, okay? Any moment now.’

Arthur sighed and watched the door. Not even half a minute passing by, a pale haired student walked by the door, picking up his pace when he caught sight of them staring. And just like that, the student was gone.

Alfred burst into laughter.

‘He’s like… He’s not even…’ Alfred clutched at his stomach, falling to the floor and knocking the chair down. Words were broken up by fits of giggles. ‘He was just… walking by like I couldn’t even see him! Holy smokes, man…’

‘Be quiet, Alfred,’ Arthur snapped, approaching the door. ‘You’ll scare him away.’

‘What – You’re bringing him in?’ Alfred wiped his eyes.

‘Another member can’t hurt.’ Arthur opened the door, stepping out into the silent hallway. It was empty.

‘Hello?’ Arthur called out as he let the door shut behind him. A shadow flitted by the hallway corner.

 _One more member and I can ditch Francis,_ was all Arthur could think as he approached the end of the hallway.

* * *

Yao watched the small window of the door. Any moment now, and the ghost would reappear – _Ivan_ would reappear, and the trouble would start. What else came of a strange, pale faced guy that went out of his way to follow you? Yao crossed his arms and leant further back into his seat. Yao already had enough trouble in his first few days at Oldbrook. He didn’t need another reason to keep looking behind his back.

‘Guys, I think we lost him,’ Alfred said, breaking the silence. Francis resumed his piano playing on the piano, a sombre tune echoing out. Alfred took it to his advantage.

‘Rest in peace, Arthur,’ Alfred said, bowing his head down. ‘You were a great, uh… A great debater, or something.’

Francis stifled a giggle. Yao furrowed his brows.

‘What?’ Yao asked.

‘It’s a joke, man. Relax.’ Alfred chuckled.

‘I… can see that,’ Yao said. ‘But don’t you think one of us should check on Arthur?’

Alfred inhaled as if to give a smart reply. He paused for moment before exhaling out. ‘… Yeah. I guess.’ Alfred got up from his seat, stretching his arms out and cracking his knuckles. ‘Wish me luck, gang. I might not come back.’

Yao did not wish him good luck, and pursed his lips instead as Alfred approached the door. The sunlight was melting into honey outside, and the thought of walking home in the dark sent Yao’s stomach tightening up. Perhaps it was best to go now, whilst everyone was distracted and busy with their own games. This was a joke of a meeting anyway, Yao was sure they wouldn’t miss him.

Yao got up from his seat, only to watch the door jolt open and nearly smack Alfred in the face.

‘We’ve got a new member, lads!’ Arthur walked in, Ivan following from behind. Yao sat back down. There was no leaving without an interrogation as long as Arthur was in the room.

‘You wanna watch it next time?’ Alfred said, rubbing his forehead as if he had actually been hit. Arthur waved his hand dismissively.

‘Everyone, this is, uh…’ Arthur looked to Ivan. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ivan,’ he said, gaze catching onto Yao. A shy smile tugged at Ivan’s lips, and Yao wasn’t sure what to do with that. Smile back?

 _Aiyah, what did I even do? It was one look,_ one _look and he’s just…_

Yao smiled back politely – with restrain, because who knew what idea this guy might get if Yao gave anything more than a polite smile. Friendly is all that was needed. Nothing more.

‘Right. Ivan, this is the debate club, as I told you before,’ Arthur said. ‘My name is Arthur. That over there is Alfred –’

‘What’s your name?’ Ivan asked, still looking at Yao.

Yao blinked. ‘Yao,’ he croaked out. There was a familiar prickling sensation on the nape of his neck, as if sweat was about to break out on his skin.

Ivan’s smile brightened. It didn’t seem so timid anymore. ‘Yao?’

Yao nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Um, yes, Ivan. That is Yao over there. He’s new as well. Oh, and I forgot to introduce you to mop-head over at the piano. You can call him whatever you like, really.’

‘Arthur!’ Francis slammed onto the piano keys. ‘Leave my hair out of your poorly-made jokes!’ He looked over to Ivan. ‘My name is Francis, by the way. Apologies for Mr. Eyebrows over there.’

‘You cheese-eating git!’

‘Oh,’ Francis chuckled. ‘Says the crumpet-stuffer.’

‘You want to say that again, Goldilocks?’ Arthur shoved a chair out of his way.

‘I said –’

‘You guys!’ Alfred said, stepping between Arthur and Francis. ‘Guys, guys, _guys_ … Cool it, will ya?’

‘Oh, really?’ Arthur said. ‘Where’s your popcorn this time, Alfred? Not enjoying the show today?’

‘Okay, now that was uncalled for –’

The chair next to Yao screeched among the loud voices. He turned around, finding Ivan seated next to him.

‘They’re fun to watch, _da_?’ Ivan chuckled. Yao offered back a smile – the same, plastic smile he had given before. But Ivan seemed to drink the sight up all the same, a shy smile lingering on his lips.

‘I don’t think we’re ever going to get anything done with these three.’

‘ _Da_ – I mean, y-yes. Sorry.’ Ivan’s hand reached for his scarf, grabbing onto its hem. ‘My Russian slips out sometimes when I’m nervous. It’s a bad habit.’

‘Oh… No, that’s okay,’ Yao said, tensing up at the sound of someone falling over. ‘I used to do that a lot, too. With Chinese, I mean. And mostly when I got angry.’

Ivan nodded, his eyes seemingly not able to meet Yao’s anymore. His gaze was lingering around Yao’s face, towards the bruise on Yao’s cheek. Yao felt warmth creep up onto his throat.

‘Gentlemen.’

Yao turned around, finding Arthur standing amidst knocked over chairs and panting. Alfred was holding him by the back of his collar, as if keeping a rabid dog from attacking. Francis was smiling smugly as he sat at the piano.

‘Gentlemen, I think we should… finish up this meeting,’ Arthur said, prying Alfred’s hand away. ‘Let go, Alfred. I’m not… going to try and choke anyone.’

‘That was not cool, man.’

‘I know… I know.’ Arthur pulled Alfred’s hand away from his collar. ‘Let’s just all take a seat now, alright?’

Alfred pulled up a chair and sat, still watching Arthur. Arthur sighed.

‘Right. We were supposed to discuss as a group what the motion should be for next week, but uh… seeing as we are short on time, I will pick one. Something simple. Alright? How about whether or not our school should have a uniform? There. I think… I think we’re done for today.’ Arthur rubbed his forehead. ‘See you all next week, I suppose.’

Arthur picked up his bag and left, letting the door slam shut behind him. This time it was Alfred that sighed.

‘You know he wasn’t actually going to choke me,’ Francis said.

‘No, I get it, man.’ Alfred burst out into a chuckle. ‘I get it. You guys like to fight. Mutual hate, or whatever. I just –’ Alfred shrugged. ‘I don’t know, man. Everyone’s just tired today, I guess.’

Francis only hummed in agreement. Yao looked at the two.

‘Is the meeting over then?’ Yao asked.

‘Yeah. I guess,’ Alfred said, looking over to Yao and Ivan. ‘Sorry about Arthur, guys. He’s always wound up a little too tight…’

Arthur knocked on the window of the door, his voice muffled. ‘Alfred!’

‘Okay, I gotta go.’ Alfred scrambled out of his seat. ‘But it was nice to uh, meet you guys,’ Alfred said as he backed away, nearly stumbling into a chair in the process. He opened the door and almost flung himself out. ‘Arthur! Wait for me, man!’

The door shut closed. Francis got up and started collecting his things. Yao did the same, picking up his books and thinking perhaps a bag would be needed from now on. Without much further thought he left the room, only to think at the last moment to say goodbye to Ivan.

 _Don’t do it_.

Yao stood with his back propping the door open.

_Look at him again and you’ll be asking for trouble._

Pursing his lips, Yao turned to look at Ivan. He couldn’t be rude. Not to that face, that innocent smile that barely needed a reason to show itself. At that moment Yao couldn’t care less for the trouble that might come of it.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Yao said. ‘Or just… around, I guess.’

Ivan chuckled, the sound of it sweeter than Yao had expected. ‘ _Dasvedanya_ , Yao.’

Yao nodded, promptly leaving the doorway and letting the door shut itself. That hot, prickly feeling on his neck again. It itched and Yao didn’t like it. Not one bit.

* * *

In the empty street, Yao looked tiny. At least from where Ivan was - far away enough for his footsteps to not alert Yao, close enough to keep him within sight. It was a distance Ivan was stuck in. He had long ago missed the turning he was meant to take to go home, had long ago missed the appropriate time to catch up to Yao and strike up conversation. No, by this point Ivan was very much doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing – following someone he barely knew home.

Yao didn’t seem to notice. But then again, maybe he did, and was hiding the panic behind impatient footsteps. There was a faint patch of sweat on the back of Yao’s shirt collar, ponytail having gone a little loose as it swung with each cautionary glance before crossing a road. Ivan couldn’t get enough of it.

Somehow, the sight reminded Ivan of a tiny ant, trudging along in the boiling heat with something twice its size on its back. And even when you obstructed its path, it still found a way around and moved on. Even when you held up a magnifying glass and let the sunlight pierce it. Still moving. Still trying so hard even when something much larger and stronger was tormenting it.

Ivan supposed that was why he couldn’t stop following Yao. It reminded him of his own days of running, of withstanding the pressure of someone with their foot above your head. But as he grew older he had learnt that it was much more fun to hold the magnifying glass yourself, to watch others squirm the way you did. That was the idea when Ivan had nearly choked a classmate in his previous school.

No one knew of course, except for Ivan and the person whose throat was being crushed in his grip. But that was how it was meant to be – personal, intimate almost. They had made Ivan’s first few years in America a living hell, made every morning a battle of whether or not Ivan should fake a fever again. So it was only equal return when Ivan squeezed his throat and watching his eyes bulge out of their sockets. Watching someone at their worst was fascinating, and in some way, Ivan had expected it to be beautiful, too.

But that’s all it was, an expectation. It wasn’t beautiful – far from it, it was repulsively ugly. No, the kid’s face was contorted and still just as snarled as it was before. Ivan quickly lost interest, releasing his grip and watching him wheeze for breath. No one bothered Ivan since. At least, not until he moved to Oldbrook. They didn’t know of his capabilities here, not yet. But Ivan wanted to try and make do without it. Fear was thrilling when it was on your side. But it was lonely, too.

Yao turned a corner, disappearing behind it. Ivan quickened his pace, though he knew he was already much too far away from home to be continuing this dangerous game of his. He turned the corner, finding the street busier than the last one, cars now driving by and pedestrians trudging alongside Yao.

A junction came up ahead, Yao slowing his steps and waiting for the traffic to subside. Ivan felt a flutter of panic in his chest. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t move if he wanted to stay hidden from Yao. But he didn’t exactly want to go home, either. Perhaps he was meant to take it as a sign, an easier way out for him to quit and turn the other way. But then again, maybe it was his chance to approach Yao without seeming too suspicious.

Ivan’s footsteps slowed, approaching Yao with the second option in mind. Soon enough he found himself barely a step away from Yao. Yao hadn’t realised, then again maybe he did, and was staring straight ahead into the busy road. Ivan felt a smile tug on his lips, the temptation to surprise Yao. He reached his hand out and clamped it onto Yao’s shoulder.

Yao jolted, turning around towards Ivan with widened eyes. A fleeting moment of panic – Ivan wondered what Yao had been expecting. But the panic soon disappeared, Yao’s expression softening into recognition.

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao said. ‘You’re walking home, too?’

Ivan nodded, words caught in his throat all of a sudden. ‘ _D-Da_.’ Ivan pursed his lips, hating that his Russian had always found a way into sentences, as if the accent wasn’t enough to make him stand out.

Yao’s tired eyes flickered to Ivan’s hand, which was still clamped onto his shoulder. Ivan pulled his hand away.

‘Where do you live?’ Yao asked.

Ivan hesitated. ‘Vickerfield…?’ He had to hope Yao didn’t actually know where that was.

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘You say that like you’re not sure.’

‘Are you?’

‘Am I what?’

‘I-I don’t know,’ Ivan said, a nervous chuckle escaping him. Yao’s frown only deepened, uncertainty mixing in with the irritation and fatigue. Ivan wanted to ease the expression somehow, wanting to be something other than a pest to Yao.

‘Do you… know where it is?’ Yao asked slowly, and Ivan realised he had misread concern for irritation. He also realised that Yao had somehow come to the conclusion that Ivan was lost, too.

Ivan burst into laughter again, this time the sound new to his ears. He had never laughed like this before – this strange kind of unstable giggling that came out of nowhere, for no apparent reason. He felt uneasy with the lack of control with it, and had to purse his lips to keep it from escaping again.

‘I, uh… I know where it is,’ Ivan said, only for it to dawn on him that now he was going to have to pretend that this route was his ‘normal’ route home. A lie formed on his tongue, perhaps too clumsy and eager as he spoke it. ‘But um… I always seem to get lost around here. All the shops and roads look the same.’

Nearby pedestrians began to cross the road. Yao’s eyes had softened, concern and puzzlement still written in them – a combination which had ignited that accomplished feeling again. Seeing Yao’s eyes in a different light, in a different expression. Ivan wanted to know just how many he could draw out, if he could somehow catch sight of Yao at his best, at his worst, at his most vulnerable state.

The blare of a car horn shattered Yao’s gaze on Ivan, the moment broken. Yao began to cross the road, now empty of pedestrians and full of waiting cars. But Ivan stayed fixed in his spot, not sure if going any further away from his home was a good idea. Yao stopped and turned back to him, tensing when two cars honked this time.

‘Aren’t you crossing?’ Yao yelled over the loud horns.

Ivan opened his mouth to answer, only to realise that neither answer he could give was a good one. Say yes and he would have to head in a direction that was certainly not the way home, and then explain to Yao why he was turning back when they parted. Say no and Ivan’s time with Yao was up. Stuck between the two, Ivan hesitated.

Yao’s dark eyes flickered in observation, holding Ivan’s gaze for a moment. The gaze faltered, Yao walking back to the pavement as cars eagerly roared past him.

‘What was the name of your neighbourhood again?’ Yao asked.

Ivan blinked, unsure – was Yao really going to try and lead Ivan back home as if he was a lost child or something? Ivan held back a smile.

‘Vickerfield,’ Ivan said.

‘Okay. We’re going to ask someone for directions,’ Yao said, walking back the way they came. ‘Come on.’

‘Ah, wait!’ Ivan called out, dreading the reaction a passer-by might give if Yao asked about Ivan’s neighbourhood. To put it mildly, it was a mess. A broken and grimy part of Oldbrook that Ivan’s family had long been thinking to leave but never got around to doing so. Ivan didn’t particularly mind it, but he didn’t want Yao to hear of it and think worse of him.

‘What?’ Yao asked, turning towards Ivan.

‘You don’t have to. I know where I am.’ Ivan said, catching the disbelief in Yao’s eyes. ‘Really!’

‘Do you?’

Ivan hummed, nodding. ‘ _Da_. I mean – y-yes.’

‘Which way are you going then?’

‘Um,’ Ivan swallowed, looking around and pointing – anywhere, really. ‘That way.’

‘So you’re going back to school?’

Ivan panicked. Had he really just done that? Pointed at the direction he had come from?

‘Maybe I forgot something,’ Ivan said.

Yao sighed, a withheld wince as he did so. In a small and almost discrete movement, Yao gently clutched at his side. Ivan furrowed his brows, wondering if Yao had been bruised there, too.

‘Look,’ Yao said. ‘It’s Monday afternoon. It’s getting late and I’m not in the mood for games. You know your way home or not?’

‘I’ll be fine on my own,’ Ivan said, hugging his books closer to his chest. It wasn’t an answer to Yao’s question, but it seemed like the only thing he could say without getting himself into a more tangled mess of lies.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ Ivan nodded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He walked past Yao in a hurry, embarrassed now that he had said such stupid things. _He won’t be my friend if I lie like that_ , Ivan thought, chest sinking and having lost that jittery feeling it once had. But the truth of the matter was, Ivan was not easy to be around. At least, that’s what Ivan had gathered from the way people looked at him. Ivan always seemed to do the wrong thing, to say something in perfect honesty and then be pushed away for it.

Had Ivan told Yao the truth, he was sure it would be unease, and not concern, that would be reflected in Yao’s eyes. Ivan wasn’t someone you wanted around, that much was clear. It seemed like lying, softening his true intentions and feelings, was the only way to make himself somewhat approachable.

By the time Ivan had reached his neighbourhood, the sky had darkened and cooled. Treading on the cracked pavement, Ivan had begun to wonder how Yao might react if he left behind the softer mask. The thought of testing him crept up on Ivan, becoming more and more appealing when Ivan tried to imagine all the new expressions he could draw out from Yao this way.

Maybe, Ivan thought. Maybe Yao would persist through Ivan’s games. Like the ant that was trudging beneath the glaring sun, Yao could handle a bit of pressure, a bit of piercing sunlight. It was with hope that Ivan thought of this, of the possibility that someone might just accept Ivan in his own jagged and unapproachable form.

Ivan could not wait to find out just how much Yao could take.


	3. Moment's Notice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay so - I just want to quickly say that, as much as it seems like I've got a consistent update schedule going on, I really don't. I've written ahead by several chapters, so you've maybe got a few more weeks of nice, timely updates. Once I catch up though... expect updates at my usual laggy pace.
> 
> I'd also like to give a lovely thank-you to those of you who've left comments! I greatly appreciate your feedback and support!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter! And of course, your thoughts via comments are more than welcome :)

‘I feel kinda bad for him.’

Yao looked up from his lunch. ‘Feel bad for who?’

Yong Soo scoffed, mouth still full as he spoke. ‘You know who.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Lonesome over there by the doors, man.’ Yong Soo nodded over Yao’s shoulder. ‘He’s got the whole table to himself.’

Yao pursed his lips, looking back down at his lunch and stabbing a fry.

‘He looks so miserable,’ Yong Soo said.

Yao stabbed two, three fries with his fork. Laughter burst out on a nearby table.

‘And like, the cafeteria’s always crowded, you know,’ Yong Soo went on. ‘But nobody’s taking those seats. Makes you wonder… You think maybe he can’t speak English or something? He never says anything in English or History, even when the teacher picks on him. I mean, like, maybe he can’t make friends ‘cuz he can’t speak-’

‘His English is fine.’

‘Really? You’ve talked to him?’

Yao shrugged, shovelling the fries into his mouth.

‘What’s wrong with him then?’

Yao tore up a chicken piece with his fork, ignoring Yong Soo. If he ignored for long enough, Yong Soo would find someone else to bother. At least, that’s what Yao hoped. He stuffed his mouth with food, too hungry to be picky about it or complain. Really, _he_ could make something better, but he wasn’t going to waste this-

‘What do you think, Jin?’

Yao darted a glance up. Yong Soo was jamming his shoulder into Jin’s, nearly knocking the book out of Jin’s hands.

‘Of the new student?’ Jin asked, pushing his glasses up and looking at Yong Soo. Patience. Not even irritation, or weariness on his face at Yong Soo’s question. Yao wondered how Jin could manage that.

‘Yeah, man,’ Yong Soo slapped Jin’s shoulder. ‘Tell us your _professional_ opinion.’

‘Professional?’

‘You know. All that psychic stuff you read up on.’

Jin blinked, expression still as water. ‘You mean psychiatry.’

‘Yeah, same thing.’

‘Actually, no,’ Jin smiled. It was a fatherly kind of smile – the reassuring kind you made when a kid tripped over and hurt himself. ‘But I can see where you might have confused the two terms.’

‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’ Yong Soo sighed. ‘ _Mr. Psychiatrist_. Tell me what you think of the new kid. What’s he got?’

Jin looked over Yao’s shoulder, darting a glance at Yao before settling his gaze on Ivan. ‘I can’t say I know much without speaking to him.’

‘Can’t you read his mind or something?’

Jin looked to Yong Soo. ‘No, see… That’s what psychics do.’

Yao stifled a laugh, trying not to choke on his food. Yong Soo glared at him before turning back to Jin.

‘You gotta give me something, Jin.’

Jin shrugged, sighing and returning to his book. ‘If he’s as shy as you say, he could have a character disorder. Or… maybe he’s just adjusting like any other normal individual would.’

‘Yeah, I don’t think so,’ Yong Soo said. ‘Have you ever seen a guy repel people like that?’

‘Maybe we’re repelling him,’ Jin said. He glanced at Yao. ‘What do you think? You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?’

Yao paused, hesitant to speak. ‘… He seems fine to me.’

A lie. The guy had smiled at him whenever he could, for no reason. Followed him to debate, tried to follow him home, though Yao never called Ivan out on it. Maybe it was how painfully obvious it was, how Ivan’s shadows stretched out onto the pavement as Yao walked, how flustered Ivan had been when he finally caught up to Yao. Shy, definitely. But unsettling, too. Yao wasn’t sure if he was meant to pity or fear him.

Yong Soo dropped his head onto the table. ‘I can’t believe I’m stuck with you guys for my last two years of glory…’

‘Glory?’ Yao scoffed.

‘You can always make new friends, Yong Soo,’ Jin said. ‘I’m sure your charms will win anyone over.’

Yong Soo peeked an eye out at Jin, voice muffled into his shirt sleeve. ‘Why is it that I can never tell when you’re being sarcastic?’

‘I’m not being sarcastic.’

‘And now you’re doing it again. Is this one of your psycho tricks or something?’

Jin went back to his book without saying anything. Yao returned to his lunch, relieved at the quiet that had fallen at the table. Though the cafeteria was loud with voices and banter, Yao was sure Ivan had overheard them, somehow.

Yao pushed the food around on his tray, a tiny curiosity peaked. Tempted to turn around, to see if Ivan had been watching and listening. He only wanted to check, to tell himself that he didn’t have to feel bad, or sorry for him. Maybe Ivan was fine on his own. Maybe Ivan was just like that – a solitary person. Why feel pity for someone like that?

Yao looked up from his tray, careful in turning his head so that it didn’t seem obvious. He darted a quick glance, turned his head as if he were just checking the time.

Yao knocked his head into a tray.

‘ _Izvini-_ I mean, sorry,’ Ivan said, holding the tray closer to himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, that’s okay-’

‘Did I hit your head?’

‘No-’

‘I didn’t mean to-’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m really sorry-’

‘I said I’m fine,’ Yao said, warmth creeping up his throat. Ivan’s eyes were unsteady in their gaze, widened slightly in some kind of mortified horror. Something like that look on his face yesterday, when Yao had offered to ask someone for directions to Vickerfield. Pitiful as it was, it was almost charming.

Ivan’s hands squeezed the tray. ‘Is it okay if I sit with you?’

Yao hesitated, opening his mouth to answer. Yong Soo’s voice barged in.

‘Nope, sorry. No space.’

Yao furrowed his brows and turned to Yong Soo. ‘There’s an empty seat right next to me.’

‘Yeah, but - Lin sits there, doesn’t he?’ Yong Soo said, leaning forward. He nudged Jin.

‘Oh,’ Jin looked up from his book. ‘Yes, Lin will be coming back from the bathroom any minute now.’

‘Who the hell is Lin?’ Yao asked, a pang of guilt the moment the question left his lips. Yong Soo sighed.

 ‘I-I’m sorry,’ Ivan said, backing away. ‘I’ll just – It’s fine. Sorry.’ Ivan hurried off, a burst of laughter among the cafeteria voices.

Yao turned back to glare at Yong Soo.

‘Hey, don’t give me that look. I was trying to say it nicely.’

‘By making up someone?’ Yao snapped.

‘Better than just telling him he can’t sit with us.’

‘Well, why can’t he?’

Yong Soo rolled his eyes and nudged Jin. ‘A little help here?’

Jin sighed and leaned forward across the table. ‘I’m not sure what it was like at your previous school, but here, mixing two different groups earns… well. Suspicions. Do you think they’d accept you or me at any other table?’

Yao scoffed. ‘No, but that’s different-’

‘It isn’t,’ Yong Soo said. He nodded towards the other tables. ‘He might not be one of them, but he’s not one of us, either. He’d stick out here.’

‘And?’

‘And?’ Yong Soo frowned. ‘He’ll be bringing over attention we don’t need. What do you think they’re gonna say about a Ruskie sitting with a bunch like us?’

‘No one even cares about what we do,’ Yao said. ‘We’re invisible.’

‘That’s how we’d like to keep it, Yao,’ Jin said.

Yao stared at the two, voices low and backs hunched over the table. Like someone was going to overhear them in this cafeteria, like they were going to get beaten for speaking like this. Scared like mice.

_(don’t fight it, okay?)_

Was that how they spent their days here? Taking the blows and lying low when they had the chance? Yao wanted to shake the cowardice out of them, defiance coiling up in his chest like it was ready to spring out. That wasn’t how he was going to live here. He picked up his tray and stood up.

‘Why don’t I make it easier for you guys?’

Yao turned around and walked away, towards Ivan’s table. Yong Soo’s objections drowned away in the cafeteria chatter, and in its place Yao’s heart began to pump hard and fast. He felt glances and stares from all sides, voices layering on thick in the air. By the time he had reached Ivan’s table, the nape of his neck was damp with sweat. He began to wonder if this was a good idea, after all.

‘Is something wrong?’ Ivan asked, eyes widened.

Yao cleared his throat. It was too late now, he’d already done the deed. He set the tray down onto the table, more forceful than he had wanted. The milk carton toppled over onto its side with a lone thump.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ Yao croaked.

A tiny crack of a smile etched onto Ivan’s lips. ‘ _Da_. I mean, yes. Sure.’

Yao swallowed, throat having dried up. He sat down and set the milk carton back up with restless hands, fidgeting with the fork, shifting his feet beneath the table, deciding if he was even hungry anymore. His hand slipped and dropped the fork onto the floor.

Ivan paused. ‘Do you… want my fork instead? I haven’t used it-’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Yao said, eyeing the torn up remnants of his lunch. ‘I’m not all that hungry, anyway.’

‘Oh.’

Yao nodded, shifting his tray. He glanced up at Ivan. ‘Don’t take it personally. About before, I mean. Yong Soo was being… rude as usual. And Jin.’

‘And Lin?’

Yao hesitated. Ivan chuckled.

‘It’s okay. I’m used to this. I wasn’t liked much in my old school, either,’ Ivan said, the shy smile still on his lips. ‘Only back there they would do much worse than fill up seats with invisible people.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Ivan shook his head. ‘No need. Things like this happen. I’ll live.’ Ivan burst into a chuckle again, the sound more forced this time. His gaze lingered on Yao, flickering down to the table. ‘You don’t have to sit with me. Your friends probably miss you already.’

‘They’re not my friends.’

‘No?’

Yao shrugged. ‘It’s been what, a few days into the year? I barely know them.’

‘You barely know me.’

Yao nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess…’ He folded his hands in his lap, squeezing his palms together. He took a casual glance around the cafeteria, wondering why he had come over here in the first place. What point was he trying to make again? Was he even making a point? He barely knew Ivan, barely knew anyone here. Even so, he was already choosing sides of a war he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of.

He looked back to the table, catching Ivan’s gaze on him. Yao stared back. Ivan didn’t look away, lips curved into a small smile.

‘What is it?’ Yao asked.

‘I think we will get along very well, Yao.’

Yao pinched his brows. ‘What makes you say that?’

Ivan shrugged, a giggle escaping his lips. ‘Just a feeling.’

Yao’s hands squeezed harder beneath the table, cold sweat on his palms. _Trouble, you’ve run into trouble, Yao -_ Ivan’s voice seemed to sing. No, somehow this did not feel quite right. Somehow, this felt binding.

The bell rang, marking the end of lunch. But to Yao, it felt more like a strange beginning than anything else.

* * *

The cement beneath Arthur’s feet glowed with heat, scorching beneath early afternoon sunlight. Arthur pushed out a breath, irritated that Alfred had left him waiting out in the blazing heat. He crossed his arms over his wrinkled shirt, one that he had thrown back on in haste when Alfred had informed him that they were bunking P.E. at the last moment.

_(I got something I want to show you)_

That alone should have been enough for a refusal – it sounded so bloody odd when said in a locker room full of half-dressed classmates. Not to mention that cheeky smile Alfred was wearing. Half the school already thought there was something ‘odd’ between them. But in Oldbrook – or anywhere, really – odd was a label you wanted to avoid at all costs.

It was with intrusive and unwelcome stares that Arthur let Alfred lead him out to the school parking lot by the arm, promising himself yet again that this would be the last time he would let Alfred pull a stunt like that. But Alfred was always oblivious to what people around him thought. Or rather, he didn’t seem to care.

Something roared in the distance, growling as it grew louder – closer to Arthur. Arthur frowned, stepping forward to peer around the corner of the school building, only to find a bright red car charging towards him. Arthur jumped back, stumbling and falling to the ground as the car sped by him.

The tyres screeched against the cement, the car coming to a stop. Arthur scrambled up, chest heaving as he panted.

‘Alfred, you bloody idiot!’ Arthur yelled, spotting Alfred seated in the driver’s seat of the hoodless car. Alfred was wearing a smug grin, bathed in sunlight and pure, unadulterated ego.

‘Whaddya think? The Chevrolet Bel Air…’ Alfred said, making an unnecessary hand gliding motion. ‘I just got it yesterday.’

Arthur huffed out his breath. ‘I’m guessing that’s why you weren’t on the bus this morning.’ He eyed the car’s glossy coat, as loud and as flashy as a car could get. ‘Late birthday present from your father?’

‘Something like that,’ Alfred shrugged. ‘I still had to work for it, though.’

‘How much does your father pay you to mow the lawn?’ Alfred raised a brow.

Alfred chuckled. ‘I didn’t mow the lawn. I did some like, paper-work stuff for my dad. Kinda like being his secretary for a few weeks.’

‘You just cleaned up his office, didn’t you?’

Alfred stifled a laugh. ‘How did you know?’

‘Call it a hunch,’ Arthur replied, voice dry with sarcasm Alfred never seemed to notice. ‘Is this what you wanted to skip class for? To show off your shiny new ride?’

‘Her _name_ is Poppy, man.’

‘Poppy Man?’

‘ _No_. Poppy.’

‘Poppy,’ Arthur echoed back.

Alfred nodded.

‘Am I missing some kind of joke here?’ Arthur said. ‘You’re calling your car Poppy?’

‘I like the name, okay?’ Alfred got back into the driver’s seat. He leant over and opened the door to the passenger’s seat. ‘Now hop in.’

‘Hop into Poppy?’

Alfred shot a glare at Arthur. ‘I don’t have to give you a ride, you know.’

A smile tugged at Arthur’s lips. How lovely it felt to annoy Alfred for a change. ‘I know you don’t.’

Alfred sighed, waiting for Arthur to get in the car. Arthur stayed where he was.

‘Come on, man,’ Alfred whined.

‘Alright, alright…’ Arthur said, feigning reluctance. He got into the passenger’s seat and dumped his bag at his feet. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Nowhere. I just wanted to drive around.’ Alfred turned the ignition keys, the engine roaring into life.

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t ‘oh’ me! It’s going to be awesome.’

‘Somehow I doubt that.’

Alfred reversed the car in one abrupt movement. The car swerved and sped out of the school parking lot, kicking up dust in its wake.

Alfred drove through the surrounding neighbourhood, civil enough to make it through traffic and junctions without getting cursed at or stopped. But once the houses thinned out and the roads became quieter, Alfred’s foot grew heavier on the pedal, turns becoming looser and more out of control. Arthur tensed and fumbled around his seat, finding the seatbelt. Alfred laughed.

‘Those things take half the fun outta this!’ Alfred said, yelling in Arthur’s ear.

Arthur drew the belt across his lap and buckled it. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I said, better safe than-’

The car came to an abrupt halt. Arthur lurched forward, the belt not doing much to keep his head from nearly knocking into the dashboard.

‘Fucking hell…’ Arthur muttered, holding onto the dashboard. Alfred prodded him in the arm. Arthur waved his hand away. ‘I think nearly getting knocked unconscious gives me reason to swear, Alfred. Don’t act like you’re offended-’ Arthur lifted his head up.

The car had stopped dead straight onto a clear road, the sides lined by yellowing aspen trees. Though the road itself wasn’t perfectly smooth, it was straight and elongated like a runway. At the very end of it, a cliff edge. No other obstructions, not even a speed limit sign. Arthur groaned.

‘Please tell me you’re not-’

‘I’m gonna.’

‘Alfred, no.’

‘Arthur, _yes_.’

‘Is this why you dragged me out here?’ Arthur sat up in his seat. ‘So you can take someone down with you in your reckless blaze of destruction?’

‘Whoa, man. Don’t be dramatic.’

‘I’m not sitting in this car if you’re going to drive like a madman,’ Arthur said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door. Alfred grabbed his sleeve.

‘No, no, no, wait! Arthur, come back, man…’ Alfred whined as he tugged at Arthur’s sleeve. ‘I didn’t bring you here to like, kill you!’ A chuckle burst out of Alfred. He pursed his lips to withhold it. ‘I wanted to apologize.’

‘For what?’ Arthur shook Alfred’s hand off. ‘The first debate meeting?’

‘Yeah, man. I felt kinda bad.’

‘So you’re going to apologize by killing yourself?’ Arthur raised a brow. ‘Sounds perfectly good to me. Go ahead.’ He took a step back away from the car. ‘You’ll take down that ridiculous car with you as well.’

‘Why you gotta be so cold…’ Alfred rested his head against the steering wheel. Arthur sighed.

‘You know I didn’t really-’

‘Poppy is a great car, man.’

Arthur grit his teeth. He slammed the door shut. ‘I don’t know how parading yourself in that car is supposed to console me, Alfred. But I’ll tell you right now that it’s doing just the opposite.’

Alfred lifted his head up from the steering wheel, a mopey look on his face. He leaned over and opened the car door of the passenger seat. ‘Just, get in? Please?’

Arthur eyed him with suspicion.

‘I’m not going to do something stupid, I promise,’ Alfred said. ‘I just wanted to say something to you. But like… not at school. People get real nosy there.’

‘Too much for your ego?’ Arthur said, regretting it a little when Alfred’s brows pinched in hurt. Arthur took a deep breath and got back into the car, stiffly taking a seat. ‘Alright. Go on, then.’

Alfred chuckled. ‘Um. Yeah. I just wanted to say sorry for not like, taking you seriously with debate and all. And bothering you with my alien stuff.’

Arthur hesitated to say something back, an inkling of guilt at hearing this. He didn’t exactly take Alfred seriously, either.

‘And like, maybe what I saw was what you said. My eyes adjusting to the sunlight, or something. Or… or it could have been a war plane. Like some new technology that the military was testing out, and the government hasn’t told the public about its plans to test the new technology on small towns and cities-’ Alfred stopped, a sheepish smile on his lips. ‘Uh. But anyway. I’ll try not… to do… that…’

Arthur nodded, though he knew Alfred was going to be doing none of what he was promising. ‘Alright.’

‘Okay.’ Alfred said. ‘Now that’s done, we can start the fun stuff.’

‘What?’ Arthur frowned. ‘Alfred, no-’

‘The road’s waiting for me, man…’ Alfred said, his voice in a hoarse whisper. ‘Look at it. So clean and straight. Poppy can’t wait.’

‘And here I was thinking you were a considerate person, after all.’

Alfred laughed, turning on the ignition. ‘You ready to burn some rubber?’

‘No!’

Alfred revved up the engine, letting the tires grate against the road. Arthur fumbled for the door, wanting to jump out before Alfred sped his way straight into hell – only for Alfred to release the brake and propel the car forward in a monstrous lurch.

Arthur must have screamed, he was sure of it. But he couldn’t hear it over the sound of the car thrumming and growling, the wind rushing past his face hard enough to sting it. He grabbed the door handle until his knuckles grew white, watching the trees whiz by him in a green and gold blur. Alfred was laughing beside him, the car approaching the cliff fast.

‘Alfred, you _bloody_ idiot-’ Arthur screeched, shutting his eyes as he curled up in his seat. The car swerved, spinning around and knocking Arthur against the side of the car like a rag doll. There was the faint smell of burning rubber, the engine lower in its hum. Arthur opened his eyes into a squint.

The car had slowed down, having turned around to cruise back the way they came. Alfred was grinning, chest heaving slightly as he pulled the car over to the side. He pressed down on the brake, the car jolting as it stopped. Arthur lurched forward in his seat. He was sure something was going to come lurching out of his throat, too.

‘You… promised you weren’t going to do something stupid…’ Arthur panted, trying to swallow away the nausea.

‘How was that stupid?’ Alfred laughed. ‘That was like, crazy good! I wanna go back and do it again!’

Arthur stared at Alfred, a slow chuckle rising out of his throat. ‘You’re… That’s… That’s very funny, Alfred. Very-’ Arthur broke into a fit of coughs. He opened the car door and stumbled out, kneeling onto the dirt to vomit.

He heard Alfred’s car door open and slam shut, a shadow hovering near Arthur. ‘You okay, there? Alfred asked, laughing a little. ‘You should have told me it was making you sick.’

Arthur groaned, spotting pieces of that ridiculously sweet bagel Alfred had given him at lunch. Everything about Alfred was sweet, until it made you sick. He spat out, trying to get rid of the bitter taste that now coated his tongue.

 ‘I…’ Arthur swallowed, only to regret it. ‘I think I made my position quite clear from the start.’

Alfred chuckled. ‘Yeah… Um. Sorry?’

Arthur shook his head. ‘Just… take me home, please.’

‘Y-Yeah. Sure thing.’

The ride back to civilisation was, well… more civilised. Alfred had slowed his speed considerably, and perhaps in an almost annoying way he kept looking to Arthur every time the car sped up by the slightest. The roads were busier now, school children filling up the pavements as they walked home. The world around them had bustled into life, but between them it was silent.

Alfred turned into the street Arthur lived on and braked the car.

Arthur opened the car door, grabbing his bag and stepping out onto the pavement. ‘You taking the bus tomorrow?’

Alfred scoffed. ‘No. Poppy’s gonna take care of my coming and going now. You want me to pick you up?’

‘Only if you drive within reasonable speeds.’

‘I will! Really! I can’t do it too often, anyway. Dad won’t like me bringing home a speeding ticket.’

‘Yes, forget about poor Arthur’s stomach.’

Alfred chuckled, the smile cracking onto his lips. Arthur held back the smile that wanted to break out on his lips, too. He cleared his throat and began walking towards his house, hearing the Chevy’s engine thrumming as it drove away.

* * *

_(Mind if I sit here?)_

It was only a question, a string of words, a formality – but within the few seconds it took Yao to speak it, lunch had suddenly become the best part of Ivan’s day. He no longer looked forward to three o’clock, or the time when his head would hit against the pillow. Lunch had become the pinnacle of Ivan’s day. He could barely contain his smile whenever the lunch bell rang.

He sat eagerly at the lunch table, watching for Yao’s face in the crowd. His stomach jittered, fluttered in a storm of anticipation and uncertainty. It would be the fourth day, today, of eating lunch with Yao - that is, if Yao wanted to. There was always the chance Yao would stop coming to his table, always the possibility Yao would grow bored of him. Ivan searched for a dark ponytail, a glimpse of Yao’s face, his hands squeezed together in his lap.

‘Why aren’t you eating?’ Yao asked, brushing past Ivan and setting his tray onto the table. Ivan blinked, watching Yao seat himself and dig in straight away into the food.

‘I’m not that hungry,’ Ivan said. A lie, Ivan thought with a pinch of embarrassment. He was waiting for Yao, but now he would have to play the part of not being as hungry as he really was.

Yao hummed, already half-way through the pizza slice. Voices overflowed around their table, air filled to the brim with the smell of fried food. Though their silences between clumsy small talk had remained awkward, it was by no means something Ivan disliked. Yao was easy to watch.

Dark eyes swept the room, feigning interest at the clock, a passing by student, the light pouring in through the windows. Anywhere but Ivan. He wondered what was going through Yao’s head, curious about what kind of voice was trapped in there. He watched the streak of sunlight hit the fading bruise on Yao’s cheek, and he itched to know how Yao could wear it so easily. Ivan wanted to know, but he couldn’t even begin to find the right questions to ask.

Yao’s gaze caught onto his, weary with irritation. Ivan hesitated – this had not happened before, at least not like this, not so close, not so direct-

‘Okay,’ Yao sighed, one eye wincing a little. ‘What is it?’

‘What is what?’

‘If it’s something you want to say, then say it.’

‘I didn’t want to say anything.’

‘It’s the bruise, isn’t it? You want all the details.’

A nervous smile tugged at Ivan’s lips. ‘I never asked for such a thing, but if it pleases you-’

Yao scoffed, a faint flush on his cheeks. _Pleases_ – Ivan had never really used the word before, nor did he think he would. But it drew out something sweet from Yao, something a little less composed, something Ivan wanted to see more of. He chuckled, the smile fully breaking out onto his lips.

Yao’s brows pinched. ‘What’s so funny?’

Ivan pursed his lips. ‘ _Izvini._ Nothing is funny. I was just…’ He stumbled for the right word. ‘I’m not sure how you say it.’

 _Pleased_ was the first word that came to his head, but he didn’t think it was wise to say that word again. He kept quiet and pretended to keep looking for the word, hoping Yao would either forget it or offer him a better one.

‘You know, there really isn’t much of a story to tell,’ Yao said, crossing his arms onto the table. ‘I got punched on the first day here.’

Ivan hummed. ‘I know.’

Yao raised a brow.

‘I saw you in history class on the first day,’ Ivan went on. ‘Your cheek was so swollen.’

Yao blinked, dark eyes considering Ivan. ‘Yeah. It was.’ Yao’s gaze flitted down to Ivan’s tray. ‘You haven’t touched your lunch.’

‘You can have it.’

‘You’re not hungry?’

Ivan shook his head. Another lie. He watched Yao pick the pizza slice off of Ivan’s tray, eagerly shoving it into his mouth.

‘The food kinda sucks here, doesn’t it?’ Yao said after taking a large bite. ‘So bad for you.’

‘You seem to like it.’

Yao paused mid-chew. He gulped down. ‘Only because I’m hungry.’

‘So you’ll eat anything if you’re hungry?’

Yao rolled his eyes. ‘ _Aiyah_ , not anything.’

‘But if it’s bad for you it’s good enough?’

Yao furrowed his brows in confusion. ‘What does that even mean?’ He paused. ‘Are you saying I have low standards or something?’

‘ _Nyet_ , of course not,’ Ivan chuckled. ‘I think the pizza would be flattered that you chose to eat it even though it was bad.’

Yao stifled a laugh, shaking his head. ‘You are still insulting my standards, but anyway…’ He returned to the half-eaten pizza, taking another large bite.

Ivan clasped his hands beneath the table, the jittery feeling of hearing that restrained laugh still residing in his chest. He sometimes wondered why Yao bothered to sit with him, what good he got out of it, sometimes doubted the conversations as mere politeness. But if Yao was trying to hide that laugh, surely that meant it was genuine?

A rolled up magazine slapped down between them. ‘Emergency meeting stat!’

Ivan jolted in his seat, glaring up at the intruder. It was Alfred.

‘What are you talking about?’ Yao asked.

Alfred pushed up his glasses, eyes wide and feverish behind the lens. ‘You guys are in the debate club, right? Well-’ He smacked the table again with the magazine. ‘The debate club is hosting an emergency meeting in room B2 now. Right now. Like. Super-fast.’ Alfred darted glances at Yao and Ivan, chest heaving. ‘It’s crazy important so you guys better show up.’

Alfred jogged away, almost bouncing out of the cafeteria like he was racing against the clock. The doors swung violently in his wake, the cafeteria voices lowering slightly to observe. Ivan turned to Yao.

‘What was that about?’

Yao opened his mouth to speak, hesitating. ‘I don’t know. It sounds important, though.’

‘It does. What was it he said… crazy important?’ Ivan said, pausing to look at the double doors again. He turned back to Yao. ‘So…’

‘We’ll go in five minutes?’

‘ _Da_.’

* * *

The soft paper of the magazine slid across the desk, crawling towards Yao. It was folded open to a bold-lettered page, blocks of text capped by a hazy image of a man looking up at the stars. Alfred’s finger touched onto the page, his voice calm.

‘Read it.’

‘I thought this was a debate meeting,’ Yao said, looking up at Alfred. Alfred sighed and turned to Ivan.

‘Read it,’ Alfred said, tapping the magazine.

Ivan leaned in towards the magazine. ‘Brand new ‘Logmaster’ chainsaw boosts cutting horsepower by-’

‘I meant the article,’ Alfred slammed his hand over the ad. Ivan furrowed his brows, leaning back in his seat.

‘You can’t read it by yourself?’

Alfred blinked, his lips drawing into a thin line. He yanked the magazine away. ‘Okay, fine. You know what? I’ll read it to you guys.’ Alfred walked up to the board, pushing up his glasses and clearing his throat. ‘It all began on a lazy summer’s day in 1949. That was the day when James O’Hannon of Yamhill County, Oregon, looked out from his front porch and saw – or thought he saw - seven enormous flying discs blinking in the sky.’

Alfred paced around the room, magazine in hand like a riveted scholar. ‘Newspapers talked of ‘flying saucers’. Many believe in the presence of extra-terrestrials, of life beyond Earth. But perhaps the real answer is not all that romantic.’ He stopped in front of Yao’s desk, eyes narrowed and mouth almost curled in distaste as he spoke. ‘Perhaps we have been deluding ourselves.’

The magazine flopped onto the desk. Alfred whirled around, striding towards the chalkboard. ‘In other words, mass hallucination.’ Alfred crossed his arms and laughed. ‘We’re all crazy! That’s Dr. Friedmann’s brilliant idea. We’re all having the same kooky dream. Forget about considering we might not be alone in the universe - forget all the irrefutable evidence, sightings, crash sites, victims of abduction. No, it’s all just in our heads. All made-up.’

Ivan pulled the magazine closer, voice in a whisper. ‘Is he still reading from this?’

‘I don’t think so…’ Yao said, watching Ivan peel back the magazine page. It crinkled, loud enough for the two of them to tense. But Alfred didn’t seem to hear, rambling as he picked up a piece of chalk and began to scratch at the board.

‘I mean, has the guy even crunched the numbers? Last year alone had 30 reported sightings in Indiana, 71 in Ohio, 34 in Texas, 49 in Colorado…’

‘I don’t get it,’ Ivan whispered, flipping through the pages. ‘Is this a story?’

Yao shrugged. Ivan opened up to a page and lingered, staring curiously at an illustration of a shadowy figure in the night. Clawed hands were reaching forward, as if aiming for the reader beyond the ink and paper. A spacecraft hovering in the otherwise empty sky. _The last thing James O’Hannon saw before allegedly being subjected to ‘experimental tests’_ , a caption beneath it read.

Maybe it was a story, but maybe it wasn’t. Yao thought of himself confronted by a shadowy creature like that, alone. He almost wanted to shiver, nearly convinced he could feel the prickly chill of that forest, the scratch of those claws.

‘Does it scare you?’ Ivan asked, the question almost purred. Yao glared at him _\- of course not_ – and turned the page. Giant block letters dominated it, proclaiming its title in ink: _Can we defend our shores against Russian subs?_

Ivan’s eyes softened. His gaze hovered over the image of a metallic beast rising out of the water, white foam bubbled up around it. _If World War III began tomorrow,_ the block of text began, leading into the numbers and facts of Soviet threat. Yao flicked the page back to the shadowy creature, almost tearing the page in the process. Ivan glanced up at him, surprised.

‘Sorry,’ Yao muttered, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for exactly. Ivan blinked, the hint of a smile on his lips.

‘That’s okay,’ Ivan said, a lilt in his voice that made it seem as though he had caught Yao red-handed at something. Yao pretended to read the magazine, feigning interest until Ivan’s gaze turned away.

The door banged open. ‘What in the bloody hell is going on?’

The screech of chalk halted. Alfred turned towards the door, regarding Arthur with a casual glance. ‘Oh, hey man. I couldn’t find you before.’

‘I have literature club on Fridays, you know that!’ Arthur huffed, shutting the door behind him. ‘And you can’t just reschedule debate meetings willy nilly!’

‘It was an emergency,’ Alfred said, a sheepish smile creeping up on his lips. ‘Plus, Fran was busy chatting up a girl. Who was I gonna talk to?’

‘That’s not an emergency!’

‘Look, man. It’s a debate, isn’t it? Why can’t we just run with it?’

‘It’s not a debate, it’s a battle of subjective and unreliable witness statements!’

Alfred rolled his eyes. ‘Man, you sound just like Dr. Friedmann.’

‘Who’s Friedmann?’

Alfred scoffed, grabbing the magazine off the desk. ‘Your kindred spirit. Only he gets paid to knock down my ideas.’

‘You make it sound like he’s personally attacking you,’ Arthur furrowed his brows, reaching for the magazine.

Alfred yanked the magazine away. ‘Well, he is! Me and like, the rest of humanity! We deserve the truth!’ He turned to Yao and Ivan. ‘Guys, tell him!’

Yao stiffened in his seat, glancing at Ivan.

‘Guys!’

‘Mass… hallucination…?’ Yao croaked out. Alfred nodded, gesturing for him to continue on. ‘Is a lie?’

‘Exactly!’ Alfred slapped the magazine down onto the desk. ‘Ivan, you wanna say something to back me up, too?’

Ivan hummed in consideration. ‘I don’t think I could without lying.’

Alfred exhaled sharply, staggering back. ‘You what?’

Ivan shrugged. ‘It all sounds like a children’s story.’

Arthur stifled back a laugh, pursing his lips into a thin line.

‘Okay, then,’ Alfred huffed out, darting his glance towards Arthur. ‘So I got one guy backing me up. You got a guy backing you up. I say this calls for a debate.’

Arthur raised a brow, tempted. ‘You know what, Alfred? The idea is warming up to me.’

‘It better. Because screw the uniform debate, man.’

‘Well. We _are_ going to have that debate at some point-’

‘I say next Monday we battle.’

‘That’s not-’

The school bell rang, shrill in their ears. Alfred sped out of the room, the door slamming shut. Arthur sighed and followed after him, waving an apologetic hand wave at Ivan and Yao.

‘See you two in P.E.’

The door eased shut, a gentle click among voices echoing outside. Yao drew close the magazine, still curled from Alfred’s grip. He opened it up to the UFO article, wondering how he was going to make any rational sense out of it. Ivan chuckled.

‘Do you actually believe in that?’

‘No,’ Yao said, frowning. He leafed past the shadowy illustration, briefly reliving that odd feeling of shivery dread. ‘But it could help with the debate.’

Ivan hummed, getting up from his seat. Yao stuffed the magazine into his bag and followed, the illustrated nightmare quickly dissolving as the minutes passed by. For a battle, Yao didn’t think he and Alfred stood much of a chance. It was, after all, not much more than an outgrown children’s story.

Which had made it all the more baffling when Yao got home that day, and realised he would have to make a debate speech out of it all.


	4. On the Street Where You Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a quick thank you to those who reviewed/left kudos/read my rochu trash. I really appreciate the continuous support you guys have shown for this fic :)  
> And without any further delay, on with the chapter!

The page snapped out of Yao’s fingers, slapping back with the push of a breeze that had rushed into his room. He muttered in annoyance and turned the page back to finish reading it, tired eyes gliding over the words of Dr. Friedmann.

The sun was reaching its peak in the sky, its light teasing and peeking through the flailing curtains as Yao read over and over again words that were of no use to him. _Mass hallucination, wishful thinking,_ words like _self-delusion_ and _hysteria_. There was no rationality in seeing UFO’s, no logic or explanation that Yao could advocate in the way Alfred did. In a line or two alone, this Dr. Friedmann demolished everything Alfred stood for. Not even an hour had passed in trying to pull out a seven-minute speech out of this pulpy magazine, and already Yao knew he was writing for the wrong side.

He turned the page, meeting the shadowy alien once again. It was still reaching for him, clawing and pining for something to dig its nails into.

_(Does it scare you?)_

A breath of air ghosted past his ear, sending a shiver trickling down the nape of Yao’s neck. He turned the page over, shaking off the feeling as he gazed at pictures of submarines in boredom. Afraid… no, he hadn’t been afraid. Why would he be, for a fictional creature like that? The breeze, maybe, had tickled him, or perhaps remembering how Ivan had murmured the question, like there was something secretly delightful about it. What was it about Ivan, anyway? This fumbling like a lost child one moment, and smiling like a satisfied cat the next, leaving Yao charmed and wary all at once. He didn’t know what feeling to act on.

The phone trilled in the hallway, once, twice, three times before Yao’s brother Jia Long stomped out of his room to answer it.

‘Yao, it’s for you,’ Jia Long called out. Yao got up and left his room, picking up the phone from its dangling swing on the cord.

‘Wang Yao speaking.’

‘Christ, Yao, your name is bloody hard to find in the yellow pages.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Oh, yes. How rude of me. Hello, Yao. This is Arthur. How are you? Fine? I’m perfectly good but I’d like to get straight to business here.’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘Meaning?’

‘I’m not sure if I’m too late in saying this, but I thought to give you a heads up on Alfred. He’s going to want to brief you on all the… well, what he calls facts – for the debate. I’d suggest you simply entertain him and nod along. Keep the questions polite.’

‘What do you mean, polite –’

‘Or better yet, don’t ask any at all.’

Yao raised a brow. ‘Is there a reason why I shouldn’t ask questions?’

‘If you want to keep him amiable, yes.’

Someone knocked at the door. Yao jolted and lowered the phone. ‘Jia Long, get the door!’

His brother only kicked his own bedroom door in response, Elvis’s booming voice crackling on his record player. Yao rolled his eyes, bringing the phone back up to his ear.

‘I have to go. Thanks for your advice, I guess.’

‘Oh no, don’t take it the wrong way. It’s bad for all of us if Alfred’s cranky –’

Yao closed the phone, striding towards the door and opening it. Alfred was standing at the doorway, a stack of magazines in his arms and a look of bubbling excitement on his face.

‘What’s cookin’, good –’

‘Wrong address,’ Yao said, shutting the door. He winced in embarrassment, inwardly cursing himself for even answering the door. Who else could it have been? The postman, who at best grimaced if Yao or anyone else in his family bumped into him in opening up the mailbox?

‘Hello?’ Alfred’s muffled voice spoke. ‘I’m positutely sure this is your house, Yao.’ A pause, waiting for Yao to respond. ‘It actually looks pretty nice from out here.’

Yao opened the door by a crack. ‘You say that like you’re surprised.’

Alfred paused, eyes darting to Yao. ‘Oh, well I meant it like – I wasn’t expecting it to be so –’ He shifted the magazine stack in his arms. ‘I just thought it’d be –’

Yao raised a brow. Smaller, dirtier, uglier – like something out of a slum, is what Alfred wanted to say. But Alfred was too bright eyed to say something bitter like that, instead fumbling around for something funny or quippy to say. Yao waited.

Alfred sighed, pursing his lips before changing the subject. ‘Anyway. I figured it’d be better if we worked on our speeches together, work as a team, you know. Plus,’ He lifted up the magazines in a gesture. ‘I got resources.’

Yao glanced at the magazine at the top of the stack: _Truth_ _Magazine_. Yao withheld a scoff, because pulpy magazines as they were, it was better than nothing. He nodded. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘Alright!’ Alfred pushed past Yao, the heavy clunk of his shoes on the wooden floor. Yao turned around.

‘Take your shoes off, please –’

Alfred gasped, stopping still in his tracks. The bellowing music was echoing throughout the hallway. ‘You listen to Elvis?’

‘No, that’s my brother playing it.’ Yao furrowed his brows, eyeing Alfred’s dirty sneakers. ‘Could you –’

‘I didn’t know you guys liked this kind of music.’

Yao pursed his lips, giving Alfred a pointed look. Alfred burst into hesitant laughter, scratching at the back on his neck.

‘Never mind what I said.’ Alfred looked around the hallway. ‘Uh… Where did you want me to leave my shoes?’

Yao gestured to a space for Alfred to leave his shoes, shutting the door and leading Alfred to his room. He opened his bedroom door with a slight pang of panic, unprepared for guests to trample around and sit in his untidy room. The mess, the papers all over the floors, clothes and socks – the plush toys on his bed. He swallowed. He was going to just have to deal with it.

‘Cool, man,’ Alfred said, dumping the stack of magazines onto the floor. ‘When do we start?’

Yao glanced at him, waiting for Alfred to notice the giant stuffed kitty on his bed. He didn’t, and Yao wasn’t sure if Alfred was ignoring it because it was not a big deal or because it was downright too weird to acknowledge.

‘We can start right now if you want,’ Yao said. ‘I was just starting on my speech before you came.’

‘Okay,’ Alfred said, taking a seat by the magazine stack on the floor. ‘I think we should start the debate with Roswell, that’s always a good place to open an argument from…’

‘What’s Roswell?’

Alfred whipped his head up, eyes wide. ‘Oh, man… You don’t know?’

‘No,’ Yao said, measured and careful. He remembered what Arthur had said about asking questions.

‘Well, you gotta,’ Alfred said, slapping his hand down on the floor. ‘Take a seat, man. Take a seat and I will tell you exactly what Roswell was. Don’t listen to all that hooey Arthur and all the other skeptics say about weather balloons, they haven’t even _seen_ half the things that went down at Roswell…’

Yao doubted that Alfred did either, but he sat down and listened anyway.

* * *

The street on which Ivan lived was in fact, two different places. By day, a slummy ghost of a town, just as much populated by youth as it was by goats, which lingered around to pick on empty tin cans of food. By night, it was a mysterious world of exotic tongues and shattering glass bottles, the alleyway between Ivan’s home and the house next door smeared with alcohol and vomit and sometimes blood. Ivan watched this other world through the frame of his window, at night when his sisters were asleep and the lights of every house but one was off, when voices and shuffling footsteps guided his curiosity to his window sill.

There had been a girl once. She was young, tiny in her wobbling heels as she strode out of that house with a drunken man’s arm slung around her waist. Pale shoulders draped in red, pin-straight hair and dark eyes that reminded Ivan of Yao. He watched with a sinking feeling as she disappeared into the night, swallowed up whole by the fog. He had never seen her since, but he saw the man stumbling back for more, more women draped in red and more bottles to guzzle down and break. The night always smelled of burning flowers and sickly men.

Opening his window to the midday sun, Ivan glanced down at the alleyway. A pile of bottles, a dirt mound littered with cigarettes. Everything else was clean and empty, the curtains of windows of the other house drawn shut. Not even the smell had remained – the air was dry of it. Just like the girl, it had all disappeared by day.

Ivan fell back onto his bed, eyes roaming over the cracked ceiling and wondering what Yao was doing right now. Working on his debate speech, probably. Unlike Ivan, who had given up within the first few minutes of trying. He had other work to do as well, homework that actually mattered, but he couldn’t get over the nervous knot that had twisted up in his stomach. Speaking in front of others wasn’t for him, wasn’t something Ivan was even remotely good at.

He rolled over to his side, curling up to try and ease his stomach. He eyed the strewn papers on his cramped up desk, on the floor where a stray few had been swept away by the wind.

Yao was probably great at it – speaking in front of others. Bruise or no bruise, he didn’t seem to care for anything other than what he was saying or doing at that moment. He could take the heat. Ivan could see it, could hear it in Yao’s steady voice. The breeze rolled over Ivan like a wave, carrying the papers further across into the room. In a spark of excitement Ivan thought of calling Yao – to ask for help with debate, of course.

He got up and went into the living room, shuffling through the letters and old newspapers on the table. He dug out a phone book, brand new and untouched. He opened it up, already anticipating the conversation, the brief interaction that Ivan had been craving though only a day had passed since they last spoke. He flicked through to the ‘W’ section, remembering the way Yao’s name had been spelt on one of his notebooks. He reached a block of names – Wang J, Wang Y M, Wang Lee, Wang Zhou Y – nearly half page filled with them. He scanned through for names with ‘Y’ or ‘Yao’ as a first name, finding with slight disappointment that there were at least seven numbers that could belong to Yao – if he was even listed here to begin with.

Ivan curled up on the couch with the book in his lap, a pencil in hand. Taking a deep breath, he began to dial the first number.

* * *

‘Wang residence...’ a voice muttered.

Ivan swallowed, his heart still beating fast from the last four, horribly misunderstood phone calls. One of them had gotten angry, somehow. Another one had settled in for a chat and insisted Ivan stayed on the line. He sighed and spoke in one exhaled breath.

‘My name is Ivan Braginsky, I’m a classmate of Yao’s at Oldbrook Academy. Can I please speak to him?’

‘He’s popular today…’ the voice grunted, before dropping the phone with a clunk. Ivan froze in his seat, heart hammering in his chest. Was this it? The right number? He heard footsteps, the shuffling of the phone being picked up.

‘Wang Yao speaking.’

Ivan chuckled, relief and jittery excitement washing over him.

‘Who is this?’ Yao asked, harder in his tone.

‘Ah, sorry – it’s me,’ Ivan blurted out. ‘Ivan, I mean.’

‘Oh,’ Yao said, falling quiet to the faint buzz of the phone line. Ivan hesitated to speak – was Yao waiting for him to say something?

‘I –’ Ivan started.

‘Have you started your debate speech?’

‘Um, n-not exactly,’ Ivan said, fumbling with the phone in his clammy hand. ‘Actually, I…’

A snicker crackled over the line, distant.

‘ _Aiyah_! Don’t touch that!’ Yao snapped.

Ivan froze. ‘Don’t touch what?’

‘Give me a moment,’ Yao said, the phone muffling against something. ‘Alfred, put him back!’

Alfred’s laughter echoed over the line, and the sound made Ivan’s blood run cold, icy through his veins with envy. ‘Do you kiss him goodnight?’ Alfred’s distant voice mocked.

‘I will break your legs in two!’ Yao snapped. Alfred only cackled louder. The phone rustled away from fabric, a sigh whispering over the line. ‘Do you mind calling back later?’

Ivan nodded, though his hand was clenched tight enough to break the pencil in it. ‘ _Da_. That’s okay.’

Yao chirped a quick goodbye, the phone closing with a clunk. Ivan leaned his head back onto the couch, trying not to imagine Alfred in Yao’s room, sitting on his bed, eating his food and learning new, intimate things about Yao. Why was he even there? What special relationship did he even have with Yao, to be in his home like that? Ivan was the one sitting with him at lunch, catching glances during classes, always trying to hurry up to Yao’s speed between walking to different classes though he could never quite catch up. What did Alfred even do?

‘Vanya.’

Ivan jolted in his seat, lifting his head up. His sister Natalya was stood at the doorway, a hand on her hip and her head cocked in curiosity.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ she asked in Russian, not bothering to speak in English as Ivan often did at home for practice.

‘No one,’ Ivan said, instinctively, out of self-preservation from his younger sister’s odd jealousies. It had been sort of cute when she was little, but at the volatile age of fourteen, it had become anything but. ‘Just a classmate,’ he said, switching over to Russian in hopes of appeasing her further.

Natalya hummed, twisting her shoe into the carpet. ‘A friend?’

Ivan chuckled nervously, quickly deciding to change the subject. ‘Is that a new dress you’re wearing?’

Natalya’s face brightened. ‘Yes. Katya made it.’

‘It’s very pretty.’

She muttered a ‘thank you’, stumbling out of the room in a fluster. Ivan sighed quietly, resting his head back onto the couch. _Later_ was much too far away.

* * *

Yao grabbed the plush toy out of Alfred’s hands, a furious scarlet spreading across his face. ‘I told you not to touch it.’

‘Aren’t you a little old for toys?’ Alfred laughed.

‘Aren’t you a little old for aliens and spaceships?’ Yao snapped, setting the toy back in its rightful place. Were his hands trembling? They were trembling. From humiliated anger, no doubt, of having Alfred not only announce something as vulgar as kissing his toy goodnight to the entire house, but to Ivan on the phone, too. Yao pursed his lips, trying not to think of the strange conclusions Ivan would have made over the phone.

‘Hey, now that’s unfair,’ Alfred said. ‘They are totally real, and totally serious.’

Yao adjusted the plush toys, which had been disturbed by Alfred’s rummaging. ‘Our whole argument is based on what people said they saw.’

‘And? You think they’re all lying?’

‘No…’ Yao said, carefully. He sat back onto the floor among opened magazines, headlines and alien illustrations strewing it. _Things That Go Pew!_ _Pew!_ , _Martian Life Uncovered_ , _Secrets of an Ex-FBI Agent_ – all very important documentations of evidence and testimonials, according to Alfred. Credible, significant artifacts that would change the face of history, which Yao was obliged to find some kernel of truth in, to make some decent argument out of because he had to and because –

_(Do you kiss him goodnight?)_

Yao felt his face grow hot once again, the debate speech now irrelevant with an embarrassment like this. So what if he liked holding a plush toy at night? So what? It was no different than any other pillow or cushion, save for the fact that it had a face, and a name, and even then what did that make Yao anyway?

Yao glanced up from the magazines, watching Alfred jot down notes on a pad of paper. His brow was knitted in seriousness, glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose like he was overworking himself – and on a ridiculous fantasy like this! Yao felt sorry for him, but he also felt that pinch of anger that he could never quite nip in the bud once it started growing.

‘You know,’ Yao said, clearing his throat. Alfred looked up. ‘The other team has a lot more concrete evidence – our side seems pretty weak.’ Yao paused, choosing his words. ‘In fact… I don’t think we have anything.’

Alfred’s brows pinched, a flicker of hurt and confusion passing over his face. ‘We got Roswell on our side.’

Yao scoffed. ‘We have a weather balloon.’

Alfred leaned forward and slammed his hand down on the magazines. ‘We have countless of witness reports!’

Yao raised a brow and sighed, flicking through one of the magazines in feigned interest.

‘We even got aliens on film!’

‘No, we don’t,’ Yao said. ‘They’re as good as the photos – fake.’ He considered something, before continuing on. ‘Anyone could make them. _I_ could make them.’

‘As if!’ Alfred snapped, slamming his hand down on the magazines again. ‘You try replicating those films, man! Go ahead, I’d like to see you try!’ He swallowed, seemingly chewing on his words before spitting them out. ‘It’s close minded people like you and Arthur that keep us behind the Soviets, you know that? They don’t have to try hard to outdo us when we can’t even look evidence straight in the face.’

Yao opened his mouth to speak, though something about Alfred’s expression kept him from saying anything – joke or no joke. Music thrummed in the next room, a drawled out and swinging voice along with it in the silence that had settled. Alfred’s jaw clenched and unclenched, gaze wavering in hesitance before a sheepish smile tugged at his lips.

‘Sorry, man,’ Alfred chuckled. ‘I uh… It’s not often I get people on my side of things. Guess I try too hard, huh?’ Alfred burst into another awkward chuckle, pursing his lips and looking back down at his notes.

Yao shrugged, returning to his magazine feeling weirdly uncomfortable, like he’d stepped into a private part of Alfred’s thoughts, one that perhaps Arthur was reasonably trying to warn him about.

‘Hey, who was on the phone before?’ Alfred asked. ‘Not that it’s any of my business, but… I kinda overheard and it sounded like you were talking to Ivan.’

Yao looked up from his magazine, trying not to remind himself too much of that phone call.  ‘And?’

‘Well. Like,’ Alfred wriggled to sit up straighter against the bed. ‘He’s the enemy, you see. Him and Arthur. We can’t be giving away our information to the other side – that puts us at a disadvantage.’

‘He wasn’t spying for information,’ Yao said, redirecting his gaze back to a magazine article about a man wearing a tin foil hat.

‘Uh – Yeah. Of course he was. He’s got it in his blood, probably. You know, like maybe his dad was one of those Soviet spies sniffing out traitors back home or something like that.’

Yao hummed indifferently, flipping the page. A diagram of the hat.

‘He could be sleeper agent and not even know it.’

‘Well, maybe you’re a sleeper agent from outer space and you don’t know it.’

Alfred gasped. ‘That would be so cool...’

Yao rolled his eyes, turning to the next page. A photo of a man and his family wearing tin foil hats. _Mr. Evans and his wife and two sons, preparing to make contact._   If Yao had any energy left, he might have laughed.

* * *

A droplet scattered breeze swept through the avenue, Ivan’s scarf whipping along it as he approached the house. He panted and tugged at the collar of his scarf, overheated from the long walk. The sun was sinking into the distant, almost foggy mountains, the sky warm in its hue – it had been pale blue when Ivan had left home from Vickerfield. The air had grown colder since. His nerves had wound up tighter.

He stopped in front of the porch; the perfect white porch that he was suddenly afraid of dirtying with his shoes. He hesitated and looked up at the house, struck by how beautiful and pristine it was, by how odd Ivan would look in it.

 _You were only supposed to call back. Why didn’t you?_ Ivan pictured Yao saying, saying it with that pinch between his brows, with that adult-like tone. _Why didn’t you?_

He grabbed the end of his flailing scarf, holding it close to his chest. Waiting a few hours wouldn’t have been so bad, and yet… He wasn’t entirely sure, but he knew he wanted to see Yao sooner than that. To _hear_ Yao sooner than that, because being with him felt precious somehow. If it was the way friendships were meant to feel, Ivan wouldn’t know – only that it was worth walking over an hour across town for.

Muffled laughter chimed inside the house, growing louder as people approached the door. Ivan felt his pulse throb in his ears, panic striking him and urging him to hide away. He ducked to the side of the porch, crouching down among thorny rose bushes. The door clicked open.

‘I can smell the victory on us already, man,’ he heard Alfred say, footsteps creaking on the porch. ‘We’re gonna blow them away like nobody’s business, I know it!’

Yao laughed, and in a storm of jealousy and wonder Ivan realised he had never heard Yao laugh like that before. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then,’ Yao said.

‘Yeah, man. See ya,’ Alfred said, hopping down the steps and getting into his car. Ivan watched him carefully, the discomfort of sudden hatred growing within his chest at everything Alfred did. He didn’t like the way he jumped into his car. He didn’t like the way Alfred smiled, or waved at Yao. He didn’t like the way his car growled and spat on the street as the engine turned on.

The red monstrosity of a machine zipped down the road, far away from Yao and his home. Ivan felt the weight of envy lift off his chest, the emptiness of the street replaced by the peaceful shush of the trees swaying in the wind. Droplets of rain were still falling – they grew heavier, pelting onto Ivan’s shoulders as the porch floorboards creaked in a slow, stretched out whine.

‘You okay there, Ivan?’

Ivan snapped his head up. Yao was leaning over the porch, arms draped over it and eyes watching curiously. His name. Yao had said it the way Ivan did – not the wide-mouthed, botched, Americanised way. _Ivan_ , like he was his own and not some cartoonish Soviet villain in the morning newspaper comics, big and cruel and horrible. _Ivan_ with Yao’s lilt on it, like he was real and grounded and liked.

The rain was now falling onto his cheeks, sliding down his lashes and matting his hair. He saw the pinch on Yao’s brows and realised he had forgotten to answer.

‘I-I’m fine,’ Ivan said, voice weak and shaky. An embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. ‘I was just about to, um –’ Leave? Leave would be best, wouldn’t it, Ivan thought. He had made so much of a fool of himself already, though, and so he fumbled for an excuse.

‘You should get in the shade,’ Yao said, raising his voice to overpower the rain, ‘before you get sick.’

Ivan nodded, mumbling in agreement as he got out of the thorny bushes and onto the porch. ‘I know I was supposed to call, but,’ Ivan stammered, feeling a flushed heat rush to his face. ‘I needed help with debate and I thought I should – I mean, I was on a walk here anyway and I was passing through… here…’ Ivan hesitated. Yao was still watching, listening with his brows furrowed.

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao sighed. ‘I would have preferred if you told me you were coming over, but I guess it’s too late to be complaining about that now. Come on in.’

Ivan followed Yao inside, the door closing behind them and shutting away the thundering rain. Yao gestured the corner of the hallway and asked him to leave his shoes there. Ivan slipped out of his shoes, smiling slightly at Yao’s muttered comment about Alfred trampling all over the floor with his dirty sneakers. He followed Yao to his room.

‘I would offer you food,’ Yao said, sweeping up the papers from the floor and into his hands. ‘But my mother is making dinner and walking into the kitchen right now would be a death sentence.’ He looked up at Ivan. ‘You have had lunch, right?’

Ivan opened his mouth to answer, only to hesitate. ‘ _D-Da_ , I have…’ He smiled in an effort to convince. Yao’s eyes remained trained on him, considering Ivan’s weak voiced answer.

‘You can stay for dinner if you want –’

The loud hiccupy voice of a singer pierced through the wall, joined in by the twang of a guitar. Yao winced, shoulders tensing up at the sound.

‘Is that…?’ Ivan started to ask.

‘Yes, it’s Elvis,’ Yao cut in. ‘And no, I’m not playing it, my brother is.’ Yao straightened the pile of papers in his hands, exhaling out slowly. ‘Anyway. You said you wanted help with debate?’

Ivan nodded, spotting the pile of plush toys on Yao’s bed. He opened his mouth to comment, only for Yao to speak as he sat down onto the floor.

‘We’ll start then. But we’ll keep this between us, okay? Alfred won’t like me helping out the enemy.’

Ivan knitted his brows, slight hurt at the word. ‘Enemy?’

Yao looked to Ivan. ‘Well, yeah. We’re on opposite teams?’ A pause, eyes softening. ‘It’s a joke.’

‘Of course,’ he stammered, laughing in a way that sounded forced. He sat by Yao, his head still ringing with his own embarrassing tin laughter as Yao began to set out the papers onto the floor in front of them. He grabbed a pencil and began explaining the speech structure to Ivan, but the words quickly melted into the air as the loud rock n’ roll song faded into something different. Yao didn’t seem to notice. Ivan did though, because the sound had become soft and low, and the singer’s swinging lilt had become a gentle croon, and somehow with the pattering of the rain it had become too much for Ivan to even hear the words coming out of Yao’s mouth.

The curtains behind them rose and fell in large, whispery breaths. Rain droplets trickled onto the bed, almost as soft as the way Yao’s eyes were blinking right now. _Krasivyi_ , was the word that kept coming to Ivan’s mind, but he wasn’t sure if it was the right one to be thinking, the right one to be saying out loud even if no one knew what he meant.

The curtains drew back in a gasp, and Yao’s words ended on an upwards lilt. Ivan snapped out of his daze.

‘Hm?’

Yao frowned. ‘I said, what are you looking at?’

Ivan hesitated for an answer, gaze becoming unstuck from Yao’s charcoal one and searching for an excuse. He caught sight of the array of plush toys on Yao’s bed. In the centre of it, a stuffed toy cat sporting a dry, lopsided grin.

‘Does your cat have a name?’ Ivan asked, hoping the diversion would work. Yao’s frown relaxed into tired resignation.

‘ _Aiyah_ … Not you, too,’ Yao muttered.

‘It’s cute.’

‘You think it’s childish, don’t you?’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Ivan asked, watching with curiosity as Yao’s expression flickered between weariness and embarrassment, one moment guarded and the next uncertain. A tiny smile quirked onto Ivan’s lips. ‘Can I see it?’

‘Why?’

‘I just want to see it,’ Ivan said. ‘You don’t trust me with it?’

‘I don’t trust anyone with Shinatty,’ Yao said. He paused, gaze wavering. ‘But… I’ll let you hold him for a bit, if you’re so insistent on it.’

‘Really?’

Yao sighed and reached back to grab the toy off the bed. Gingerly, he handed it to Ivan, watching him with caution. Ivan took the plush toy, looking at the strangely made up face, the cute button eyes and the pink bow on its ear. The white fabric had greyed over the years, its body squished into a slight curve where the cotton had been squeezed time and time again.

Ivan never had many toys as a child, but he and Natalya often fashioned dolls out of rags, sticks, even vegetables sometimes, and played out odd tales with them. She had lost interest in them about a year or so ago, but Ivan still missed it. Even holding the toy now, he had the temptation to make a voice come out of it.

He held the toy like a puppet, turning it towards Yao and chiming in a high-pitched voice. ‘ _Yao-chka_.’

Yao pulled his head back, frowning. His lips, perhaps hiding a smile. ‘You’re doing the voice all wrong.’

‘Oh?’

Yao took the toy out of Ivan’s hands. ‘It’s more like this.’ Yao cleared his throat, making the toy’s head bob up and down as he spoke. ‘ _Aiyah, I’m not a little girl, aru._ ’

Ivan burst out laughing. ‘Why does it sound like an old man?’

‘Just because.’

‘It’s too cute to sound like that.’

‘ _Looks can be deceiving, aru,’_ the toy spoke, tilting its head dramatically. A grin tugged at Yao’s lips, his face flushed. It was infectious, sending an uncontrollable smile across Ivan’s lips, too.

‘Aru?’ Ivan asked.

‘Hm?’ Yao blinked, the toy faltering in his hand. ‘Ah, that’s like… Um. I don’t know. It’s just a tic he has.’

‘Oh,’ Ivan said. Yao fidgeted with the toy in his hand, the tiny grin on his face crumbling beneath a sudden self-awareness. Ivan didn’t want to lose the smile, fumbling in his mind for a way to keep it. ‘Do the other ones have voices and names?’ he asked.

Yao’s eyes brightened. Then, puzzlement on his face. ‘You really want to see the rest of them?’

Ivan nodded. Yao considered the answer for a moment, before hopping up onto his bed to grab a panda plush from the toy pile.

‘This one doesn’t actually speak,’ Yao said, handing the toy over to Ivan. ‘And his name is, uh. Panda. I’ve had him since I was ten, when I was in Hong Kong.’ He turned around and grabbed a round, white cushion. ‘I don’t know what this one is supposed to be, but it has a face. I got it from some rip-off claw machine when I was in Japan.’ He threw the toy over. ‘People there kept telling me it looked like ‘mochi’, so that’s what I called it.’

Ivan caught it in his arms. ‘Are all of these from different places?’ He turned the white plush around, revealing a vacant, button-eyed face.

‘Most of them,’ Yao picked up a rabbit plush toy. ‘It was always nice to have something from my last home each time I moved, so…’ He lifted the plush up. ‘This one is from Vienna. I got it last year. I still haven’t named it, though.’

‘Why not?’

Yao’s face drew into a hesitant expression. ‘I don’t know. Couldn’t be bothered, I guess.’

Yao threw the toy over. Ivan caught it, his arms full of plush toys. They all smelled sweet, soft and worn out like they had been squeezed and held countless times. The rabbit was still puffed up and new, however. Unnamed. He looked to Yao and saw that his eyes had become weary, the excitement on his face having died out a little. Ivan wondered why.

‘Do you miss your old school?’ Ivan asked.

‘Not really,’ Yao said, a small frown settling between his brows. His eyes diverted away from Ivan, idly gazing around the room. His foot was gently swinging off the bed. Ivan wanted to catch it, sensing something distressed about the way it was moving. ‘The students there weren’t nice.’

‘Are they nicer in Oldbrook?’

Yao scoffed. ‘No. Worse.’ His foot was swinging in bigger strides, like the tail of an irritated cat. The rain was pelting hard against the window, and at some point the music had stopped. Yao’s hand fidgeted in his lap.

‘ _Reisfresser_ ,’ Yao said. Ivan looked up at him in question. Yao shook his head. ‘The stupid name they called me in Vienna.’ A dismissive smile played on Yao’s lips, but it wasn’t the kind or playful one Ivan liked. Yao seemed to blink something back. ‘It means rice-eater in German. Sometimes they threw rice at me if they were bothered enough to do it. That’s how nice they were.’

Ivan’s gaze fell, suddenly useless with words or feelings. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, that might be consoling. Yao chuckled, the sound weak.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Yao said. ‘Forget what I said. It’s not something to talk about. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

‘I get it,’ Ivan blurted out, not brave enough to look up at Yao. He swallowed, an odd constricting feeling in his chest. ‘The name-calling and the throwing, I mean. People are cruel.’

Yao’s foot stilled. The rain didn’t soften, the silence didn’t ease up, but when Ivan glanced up at Yao there was something bruised about his expression, somewhere between tenderness and pity, or perhaps something more vulnerable than that. Ivan wasn’t sure, and the look on Yao’s face was only there for a fleeting moment, before Yao’s mother called out from the kitchen.

Yao got up from the bed and cleared his throat. ‘I have to go to dinner,’ Yao said, collecting up the papers from the floor. He looked up at Ivan, hesitating before speaking. ‘You can stay and eat with us if you want.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ Ivan said, glancing at the darkening sky outside. ‘I really should get home before my sisters panic.’

‘Oh… Yeah. Sure.’ Yao set the papers in a pile onto his desk. He showed Ivan out to the front door, the rain showering onto the pavement like liquid bullets. ‘ _Aiyah_ … One moment,’ Yao said, disappearing into a room before coming back out with a red umbrella in his hands. ‘Take this with you.’

‘Ah, you don’t have to –’

‘Take it.’ Yao shoved the umbrella towards Ivan, brows furrowed. ‘You’ll need it.’

Ivan gently took hold on the umbrella, mumbling a shy ‘thank you’. Yao nodded sharply, satisfied with Ivan’s acceptance. Voices bustled inside the house, plates clinking. Yao’s hand fumbled with the door.

‘I guess I’ll –’

‘You should call her ‘Zaika’,’ Ivan blurted out.

‘Who?’

‘The bunny. It should have a name,’ Ivan said. ‘Zaika – it means ‘bunny’ in Russian.’ Ivan shrugged. ‘It sounds cute, too.’

‘Zaika…’ Yao seemed to consider the name for a moment, hand fidgeting on the doorway. A tiny smile crept onto his lips. ‘Zaika it is, then.’

The gesture had been small, a quiet tug of the lips, but it felt kinder and better than any fake laugh Yao had given Alfred. Ivan gripped the umbrella tighter, jitteriness spreading to his fingertips.

‘I’ll see you on Monday, I guess,’ Ivan said, turning away. ‘ _Dasvedanya_ , Yao.’

‘See you,’ Yao chirped before closing the door. Ivan walked down the porch steps, opening up the umbrella and hearing the rain pelt onto it. The sky had darkened to a dusty grey, the streetlights beginning to light one by one like candles. He walked down the street, heading home in what felt like a dream. Though the stormy clouds were hanging over him and the rain was pouring on him relentlessly, the world beneath his feet was tinted pink by the shade of the umbrella, every step feeling less like it was hitting the ground and more like it was floating on air.

Thunder crackled and growled in the distance, but Ivan could only smile like a fool.


	5. Haunted Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Update is here! And it is long overdue - but better late than never, I guess. Apologies for the delay, and uh, future delays (an update a month? can I make that promise?).
> 
> Anyways, read on! And I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

The bell trilled as Yao pushed his way into the Biology classroom, squeezing through a group of chatting students at the doorway. He ignored the muttered questions of whether he was a girl or boy, the withheld snickers at the end of a joke Yao didn’t care to hear. He slid his bag off his shoulders in preparation to dump it onto the bench desk where he usually sat, only for someone else’s books to fall in its place instead.

‘Seat’s taken.’

Still panting from his run from the late bus to class, Yao looked up. ‘What?’

Yong Soo slumped down into his seat, glancing at Yao with indifference. ‘It’s taken. I’m sitting here.’

Yao looked over to the empty seat next to Yong Soo. Jin was sat in the next seat over, offering a sympathetic shrug to Yao. ‘Let me guess,’ Yao said. ‘Lin’s sitting next to you now.’

Yong Soo sighed and glared up at Yao. ‘I thought you were going to make things easier for us. Now you want to sit here like nothing happened?’

Nearby students glanced over in curiosity. Others had the decency to pretend they were busy reading notes. Yao looked back to Yong Soo, wishing the conversation didn’t take place on a stage like this.

‘You didn’t mind me sitting next to you in class last week,’ Yao said.

‘You’re digging yourself a hole, Yao,’ Yong Soo said, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘They’re not friends with you because they _like_ you. They just think you got brains they can use, that you’re smart ‘cuz you look it. Then when they’re done with you they’ll just - hang you out to dry.’

Yao furrowed his brows, balance knocked by the students pushing past him to get to their seats. ‘What are you even saying –’

The teacher called out for everyone to take their seats, the classroom door closing shut. Yao looked to Yong Soo, hoping he might change his mind last minute. Yong Soo didn’t move, and didn’t meet his gaze either. Yao stepped away, hoisting his bag up higher on his shoulder as he headed for the empty seat at the back.

He sat at the scratched up desk, the teacher’s voice drowning out into the background. He set out his class materials, watching Yong Soo whisper something to Jin with his typical impish grin. Yong Soo didn’t know what he was talking about. He hardly knew Yao, nor the people Yao spent time with. Yong Soo was all words and no proof, keeping people like Jin close by convincing them there was nowhere else to go, that all of Oldbrook was some kind of unbearable hell if you didn’t stick to your own kind. No, Yong Soo didn’t know what he was talking about.

‘Did you bring one, Yao?’

Yao snapped his head up at the teacher. Heads turned to look at him. He noticed the lumpy plastic bags on the desks and felt the need to drop his head down in embarrassment. He’d forgotten about the heart dissection taking place today.

‘If you don’t have a partner to share with,’ the teacher went on, a film of pity over her eyes, mock sympathy that always made Yao’s skin burn up in indignation, ‘you can use the one I brought in.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Ivan crept into the room, flushed as he slipped past the door. The class turned to look at him. ‘Sorry,’ Ivan said again, swallowing.

‘That’s alright, just take a seat,’ the teacher said, returning to her desk. ‘Partner up with Yao for today, he didn’t bring in a heart.’

Ivan’s eyes caught onto Yao’s, the confusion on his face taken over by blatant excitement. Yao felt the flush on his skin burn even more, feeling as though he had been made into a spectacle somehow. The teacher instructed everyone to unwrap the hearts from their bags and collect their gloves and scalpels from the front of the room. The classroom bustled into life, chairs screeching and bags crumpling. A thud on the desk space next to Yao. Ivan had set a plastic bag down onto the bench desk, unwrapping it to reveal a heart nearly the size of a football.

‘What is that?’ Yao straightened up in his seat, gagging on the meaty smell of it.

‘It’s a heart,’ Ivan said.

‘Yeah, but of what?’ Yao asked, swallowing as he watched Ivan lift the organ up.

‘I don’t know. My sister got it from the butcher’s.’ Ivan glanced over at Yao, a smile forming on his lips. He leaned over, the beastly heart cradled in his hands. ‘Do you want to hold it?’

Yao shook his head, wrinkling his nose at the proximity of the fleshy lump. ‘I’ll just… go get the gloves.’ He scrambled out of his seat and went to get the gloves and scalpels, eyeing the rest of the hearts, which were frail and tiny compared to the one Ivan had brought. He returned and saw that Ivan’s hands were already stained with blood. He gave him the gloves anyway.

‘Can I cut first?’ Ivan asked, picking up the scalpel without hesitation. Yao stretched his gloves on with a snap, wincing when the latex smacked him.

‘Sure. Knock yourself out.’

Ivan’s eyes glimmered with eagerness, looking back down at the heart and adjusting its orientation. ‘I think we’re supposed to cut down this way…’ He pressed the scalpel into the slimy flesh, cutting down the middle of the heart. The air grew musty – a smell not quite rotten, but not quite fresh either. Flesh tore apart beneath the blade, and the two halves of the organ fell open like a cut fruit. Ivan made a small gasp in awe. Yao didn’t want to breathe at all.

‘It looks disgusting.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Yao looked up at him. Ivan laughed, faint pink dusting his cheeks as he shrugged.

‘It’s perfect,’ Ivan said. ‘It accounts for everything it needs.’ He placed his blood-stained finger over a white piece of flesh buried in one of the halves. ‘Even the direction the blood must flow.’

‘Have you been reading ahead?’ Yao asked as he watched Ivan’s finger trail down the torn sinewy flap.

‘Touch it.’

‘What?’

‘Touch the tricuspid valve.’

Yao raised a brow. ‘You have been reading ahead.’

Ivan took hold of Yao’s hand and brought his index finger to the tiny white piece of flesh. Yao wanted to gag, repulsed by the slimy feel of the heart even through the glove, the odd suffocating smell of the organ. But his pulse was also fluttering, feeling choked by Ivan’s grip on his wrist.

‘It feels flimsy, doesn’t it?’ Ivan asked.

Yao nodded, heat rising at the collar of his shirt. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘This is what makes the sound of our heart beating. Well, half of it.’ Ivan tilted his head down to look at Yao, innocent wonder on his face. ‘Did you know that?’

Yao hesitated, skin feeling ticklish and strange where Ivan was holding him. He was looking at him in that same way, that same curious gaze Ivan had given him when Yao had handed over Shinatty and hoped a thousand times over that he wasn’t going to be made fun of for it. Ivan didn’t, and yet Yao was somehow still expecting it, waiting for Ivan to turn Yao into a joke of some sort.

Before Yao’s face could redden, he cleared his throat and kept his voice level. ‘No… I didn’t.’

‘Boys…’ The teacher sighed as she walked over. ‘You weren’t supposed to cut it open yet.’

Yao’s hand yanked away from Ivan’s, not thinking of the tiny spots of blood he had flecked onto his own shirt. Ivan flustered with an apology to the teacher, shyly smiling away the judgement until she left. Yao spent the rest of the class activity letting Ivan do the rest of the cutting and spotting of various arteries and vessels, pulling off the gloves with relief when they had finished with the dissection.

He sat down and began writing up the answers to the questions on the chalkboard, stomach fluttering just a little when he remembered the debate speech he would have to give today. It was as good as any crazy argument was going to get – he could only hope he wasn’t going to be making more of a fool of himself than Alfred.

The rubber end of a pencil touched against his temple. ‘ _Yao-chka_.’

Yao glanced up. Ivan was leaned in close, pencil extended as if touching Yao by hand would result into some disastrous explosion. Yao thought of the strange way Ivan had manipulated his name into something botched, something soft and sweet sounding when all his life Yao had been told it was a weird name. It still sounded strange, but this way it was weird in _Ivan’s_ way and the branding feel of it left Yao flustered.

‘W-What?’ Yao croaked out, aware of the curious glances in his way.

‘I was wondering what you put for question number three.’

Yao pushed his notebook towards Ivan. Ivan pulled it closer, eyes lowering to the page to read it. He had pale lashes – Yao wasn’t sure why the detail struck out to him, but the more he tried not to think about it the harder it got not to look at them. They looked delicate, flickering up along with Ivan’s gaze. Yao turned his head away, pretending to find something focus-worthy on the chalkboard.

‘I forgot to bring your umbrella,’ Ivan said.

‘Hm?’ Yao turned back to Ivan, pretending he had only just snapped out of his very-academically-focused trance.

‘Your umbrella,’ Ivan said, pausing for a moment with his eyes still trained on Yao. What was he even looking at? An embarrassed smile broke out onto Ivan’s lips. ‘I forgot it at home. Is it okay if I return it to you tomorrow?’

‘No,’ Yao blurted out. Ivan’s eyes widened, startled. Yao felt bad – in a way he had kind of wanted to see Ivan surprised like that. He seemed so naïve. Was it really so easy to say something mean like that to him? ‘I mean – of course you can. Sorry.’

The startled expression dissolved away on Ivan’s face. The sunlit smile returned, a breathy chuckle easing out of it. Yao didn’t want to think it, but he kind of liked this smile.

* * *

Hearing his role called out, Arthur took in a deep breath and stood up. He straightened his speech notes against the desk, catching sight of Alfred slapping Yao on the back in congratulations.

‘You did great, man,’ Alfred said. Yao forced a smile, giving a half-hearted ‘thanks’ that almost made Arthur want to scoff in amusement. He walked up to the makeshift podium, a desk with a stack of heavy textbooks piled onto it, and set his notes out onto it. He looked up and cleared his throat. A smug smile nestled onto his lips.

‘The notion that there are other-worldly beings watching us, studying us, flying around in tin foil spaceships and abducting us, is no more grounded in evidence than a bogus conviction that a flying teapot orbits around the sun.’ Alfred snorted. Arthur paused to glare before continuing on. ‘The burden lies not on the opposition to _disprove_ that UFO’s exist, but on the proposition to _prove_ they exist. And since the proposition has done nothing more than provide useless testimonies, I shall spend a brief moment outlining the faults in their so-called ‘evidence’. Consider this my rebuttal.’

Arthur ignored Alfred’s fidgeting, kept his eyes ahead on the windows which framed lukewarm rainy weather. His rebuttal went on undisturbed, safe within that first minute of his speech. Francis raised his hand to indicate that the first full minute had passed, a tiny stirring of dread in Arthur’s stomach that anyone – more specifically, Alfred – could now interrupt with pointless questions.

Alfred jumped up, abrupt enough to knock his chair over. ‘Point of information.’

Arthur squeezed the edge of the desk with his hands, muttering a ‘no thank you’ before continuing on. Alfred sat back down. Francis was doodling something on his marking rubric. Ivan was making strange puppy eyes at Yao – Arthur wasn’t sure what that was all about.

‘Point of information.’ Alfred’s chair screeched again. A growled sigh from Arthur. He had to at least take _some_ questions.

‘Go on.’

‘What about credible witnesses like air force pilots?’

A somewhat reasonable question. Arthur was a little surprised. ‘Well – mass hysteria doesn’t exclude those of higher standing. Not to mention that these pilots you always seem to rely on as evidence never explicitly state what they see is a UFO. The proposition likes to speculate. These ‘credible witnesses’ don’t.’

Alfred considered the answer for a moment, before his eyes lit up again. ‘But they saw what they saw.’

Arthur raised a brow. ‘They did, didn’t they? Please sit back down.’

‘Aren’t you gonna rebut that or whatever?’

‘You’re not meant to respond to my response to _your_ point of information,’ Arthur sighed, eyeing the clock. Wasting time by the second.

‘But I gave you another point of information.’

‘You can’t give them consecutively like that!’ Arthur snapped, looking over to Francis for help. He was still lost doodling. Arthur looked back to Alfred, hoping he could convince by glare alone. ‘Alfred.’

Alfred laughed it off and sat. Arthur felt his chest settle in relief, clearing his throat as he found on his notes where he left off. ‘As I was saying, mass hallucination is not all that far-fetched of a phenomenon. Just within the last decade multiple incidents have sparked across the country –’

‘Point of information,’ Alfred said, voice fresh and bright like there was not a mischievous bone in his body.

Arthur flashed another glare at Alfred, perhaps too strongly because now it was giving him a dull headache. Nevertheless, he would take this one question. This last one question and it would be considered good enough – taking at least two points of information was Arthur’s rule of thumb. ‘Yes, Alfred?’

‘But they saw what they saw.’

Arthur grit his teeth – _you bloody git, you’re playing games with me_. He refused to give in. He refused to shout, because that’s what Alfred wanted. ‘That’s a very interesting point you have there, Alfred,’ Arthur said, coating his words in a sweet politeness. ‘I was in fact, going to address this very important issue in my speech in a few moments. Please take a seat.’

Alfred faltered, perhaps not expecting a civil approach from Arthur, and sat back down. His speech continued on as planned, and though Alfred did his best to be as disruptive as possible in giving more points of information, Arthur refused them and continued on. He had taken the two he needed to fill his own requirement, and he hoped Francis had taken notice that he had handled them exceptionally well. Francis raised his hand to indicate the final minute – the safe zone that often felt like snapping through the ribbon at a race – and before Arthur knew it his speech had reached its graceful end.

_Beautiful._

‘Proposition second speaker, please,’ Francis called out, scribbling on his page. Arthur took his seat and watched Alfred hop out of his, blue eyes flashing at Arthur with playful revenge.

‘You ready for this?’ Alfred asked, slapping down a single notecard onto the podium. Arthur scoffed.

‘Is that all of your evidence?’

Alfred mock smiled, tapping his temple. ‘It’s all in here, man.’

‘I’m sure,’ Arthur said, relishing in the indignant stare Alfred gave back. Their eyes broke away as Alfred turned back towards the rest of the room, diving straight into his speech with a booming voice and lively hand gestures. He glowed with a kind of confidence that Arthur envied, just a little. Alfred was the kind of person who could take up a leading role easily, naturally like it was what he was meant to do. Debate would suit him well, if the words he spoke weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

Paper whispered next to him, and in waiting for that one-minute safe zone to pass, Arthur glanced over at Ivan. He and Yao had been quiet for the majority of this debate, it would cost them in competitions if they didn’t speak up now and then. Ivan was writing something down – Arthur couldn’t help but take a peek.

_Yaochka looks bored?_

Ivan folded the paper and showed it to Yao. Yao scowled and scribbled furiously on his own page. He lifted it up.

_No. And that’s not my name._

Yao’s eyes caught onto Arthur’s, widening slightly. The paper in his hands snapped down onto the desk, causing Ivan to follow Yao’s gaze and look at Arthur. Arthur quickly turned away. He saw Francis raise his hand in the corner of his eye and took the chance.

‘Point of information,’ Arthur said, standing up from his desk. Alfred chuckled – _he chuckled at me, that muppet_ – and nodded.

‘Yeah?’

Arthur paused, taking a moment to conjure up a question. ‘You claim pictures of crash sites as definitive proof. There are no official reports of these incidents. There is no guarantee that these photos are genuine, either.’

 Alfred opened his mouth to answer, quickly, confidently – but he only faltered. Arthur withheld a smile. ‘But…’ Alfred drew out a pause. ‘How do you know they didn’t cover it up?’

‘Who’s _they_?’ Arthur scoffed, frowning.

‘Maybe –’ Alfred pursed his lips, a grin close to breaking out on his face. ‘Maybe you should ask in your next point of information, Arthur. You can’t talk back to my response, remember?’

Arthur huffed out, admittedly, a little surprised. ‘You devil.’

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

‘Nothing,’ Arthur grumbled, sitting back down and watching Alfred go on with his speech. He would wait a bit. Just a little so Alfred could get lost in his own words, so that his arguments reached a peak where an interruption would be most damaging. He crossed his arms and listened, hearing other little sounds too, a pencil rolling across the floor, rain pelting on the window, paper shuffling and Ivan withholding a chuckle. Alfred’s gestures had weight to them now, words growing in dramatic tone. Now was the time to hit. Arthur leaned forward in his seat, when Alfred’s gaze caught onto him.

Alfred was flushed, bright-eyed and smiling. He was really enjoying this, Arthur thought, and it felt sort of cruel to take that away from him. Arthur sat back in his seat, cursing himself and promising to be harsher the next time. Their competitors won’t be this merciful.

‘Opposition second speaker, please.’

Arthur blinked, looking to Francis and then to Ivan, who stood up from his seat with a terrified expression. The sky was warmer outside, windows dripping with what was left of the rain.

‘Um… Should I start?’ Ivan asked, towering over the podium. His voice was trembling, Arthur felt almost sorry for him. Francis responded, telling Ivan to go ahead.

‘This house believes that aliens do not exist…’ Ivan started, going by the formula without taking creative liberties, taking it step by step in the way middle-schoolers did when they first start out in debate. Arthur looked to the proposition, Alfred poised in his seat like he was ready to pounce out of it any second now. Yao was far more relaxed, though his hands were fidgeting beneath the desk. He hadn’t given any points of information today, and from the sympathetic furrow of his brows Arthur could tell Yao wasn’t going to be giving one to Ivan, either.

Time went by slowly – perhaps because Ivan’s words were paced like the crawl of growing roots. Statements were spaced out by nervous swallows, hitches in his breath when he reached an important part of his argument. A painstakingly sluggish minute had passed, and just when Ivan sounded almost nervous enough to cry Alfred jumped out of his seat.

‘Point of information,’ Alfred barked.

‘Yes?’ Ivan stammered. His notes crinkled in his hands.

‘How can you disprove that something exists?’

Arthur leaned forward in his seat. Was he really? Did Alfred just do that?

Ivan’s brows furrowed. ‘I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?’

‘I said, how can you disprove that something –’

‘You can’t just steal my argument and throw it as your own!’ Arthur shot up from his seat, feeling anger flush beneath his skin. ‘You’re completely subverting the idea!’

Alfred scoffed, that arrogant smirk on his lips. ‘Who says I can’t use it as rebuttal?’

‘You’re twisting my words and using it against him!’

‘Uh, hello – that’s competition for you, buddy.’

Arthur pushed his chair back. ‘Don’t you call me that.’

‘Please, everyone,’ Francis chimed, standing up like he was addressing a ballet class. ‘Let’s not fight like this –’

‘I’ll call you whatever the heck I want!’ Alfred pushed his desk away. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you exactly what to do, Alfred,’ Arthur pushed his own desk aside. ‘You can take your silly UFO theories and that _ego_ of yours and shove it right up your –’

A bang reverberated in the room. Arthur tensed, looking over to where the sound had come from. Yao’s desk was toppled over, papers scattered across the floor.

‘You are being too loud,’ Yao snapped. His eyes softened, hesitant at the realisation that he had the entire room’s attention. ‘And you interrupted Ivan’s speech.’

The room remained still for a moment, save for the gentle drips of rainwater down the outdoor pipes, and Ivan’s breathy smile. Alfred looked to Arthur, still standing.

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘I suppose I’ll have to be the adult here,’ he said, taking his seat. Alfred muttered something back and took his own seat. Francis cooed something in French, smirking at Yao as he helped lift the desk back up. The debate continued on, Ivan’s speech trudging along without further interruption. When Ivan’s time was up, he returned to his seat with a relieved sigh. Francis leant back in his seat and hoisted his legs up on the desk.

‘Is everyone prepared to hear the results?’ Francis asked. The room mumbled in agreement. ‘Alfred, your speech was well constructed and… enthusiastic. Evidence was lacking. Yao, I would say the same for yours. Arthur… your speech was okay, I guess.’

‘Be honest, you frog,’ Arthur huffed out.

Francis smiled as he hummed. ‘Perhaps it was one of the best.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Ivan, you still need more practice in the speaking department. Your arguments were sound, but I want to see you blossom with confidence.’ Francis outstretched his hands in a fanciful gesture. Alfred snorted. Ivan tensed up in embarrassment. ‘Also, points taken off for Yao and Ivan for writing love letters instead of giving points of information.’

Yao’s eyes widened in indignation. Francis hummed in interest at the reaction, sinking further into his seat with his arms crossed over.

‘Anyway,’ Francis waved his hand to change the subject. ‘How would everyone like to hear the final verdict?’

* * *

The door slammed with such force that the desks shook.

Arthur looked to the rest of the room in exasperation, striding out of the room with a muttered apology. The door closed shut behind him, and just as Yao was ready to give a little sigh of relief, a voice broke the silence.

‘Alfred, don’t be such a child!’ Arthur snapped, voice distorted by the echo of the hallway. Yao tensed and looked to Ivan, finding him frozen in his seat in discomfort, too.

‘I don’t understand…’ Ivan said, looking between Yao and Francis. ‘Alfred’s team won.’

‘Not in the way he wanted to win,’ Francis said, getting up from his chair with a tired sigh. ‘Don’t worry about it too much, you both did well for newcomers.’ Francis gave a sympathetic smile, his hand on the door handle. ‘Until next time, _mes amies.._.’

The door opened and closed with two gentle clicks, leaving the classroom lights humming in the absence of voices. Yao started to collect up his papers, stuffing them into his bag as footsteps approached his desk.

‘I –’ Ivan started. Yao looked up, Ivan’s eyes wavering and unable to meet his. ‘I haven’t thanked you properly for helping me on Saturday.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Yao said, getting up from his seat and hoisting his bag up.

‘Come over for dinner at my house.’

Yao paused, furrowing his brows. ‘It’s Monday.’

‘On Saturday, then.’

Yao stepped away and tucked the chair into the desk, thinking on it even though he already had the answer ready. ‘Sure,’ Yao said, nodding.

A breathy smile swept across Ivan’s lips. ‘That makes me glad.’

Yao took a step back, not sure what to say to that. He chirped a curt goodbye and turned to leave, only to stumble over the leg of one of the desks and lose his shoe. He muttered a curse and turned back around to retrieve it, only to find Ivan handing it to him with a teasing chuckle.

‘Is Yaochka missing a glass slipper?’

‘ _Aiyah_ ,’ Yao growled, snatching his shoe. ‘There are so many things wrong with what you just said.’

‘But it’s like Cinderella, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not. My shoe fell off – that’s all,’ Yao snapped, jamming his foot into his shoe and hastily tying the laces so he could make his getaway before something more embarrassing happened. ‘Goodbye.’ He set off to leave the room, at the fastest walking pace he could manage without breaking into a run.

‘Ah, wait!’ Ivan called out, though Yao was already out into the hallway and speedily making his way through. ‘Let me walk with you!’

Ivan followed him, asking him why the words offended Yao. Yao didn’t answer – Ivan’s tone was begging for word games, deliberate misunderstandings and flustered corners of did-I-really-just-say-that, and Yao didn’t want any of it. He would walk home, keep his conversation with Ivan calm and in control, and make sure Ivan went about his own way home when their paths diverged. Then, blissfully, Monday done and over with.

* * *

A tree branch groaned and crackled, snapping in the blustery wind and falling unceremoniously onto a trash pile by Yao’s feet. He flinched and started walking closer to the edge of the pavement, eyeing the deadened tree husks and wonky picket fences lining the road. A goat’s head turned slowly to watch him, chewing on a dirty rag that was making crunching sounds like broken glass. A cat screeched nearby, and Yao was starting to think he must have taken a wrong turn _somewhere_.

He reached the house with a neat ‘46’ painted onto its mailbox, guarded by a patchy, one eared cat. It circled around him, mewling as Yao walked up to the front door. He looked up at the windows, hoping for some kind of confirmation that he wasn’t at the wrong address. But the curtains were drawn, and the house was quiet, devoid of any chatter or noise. Yao took a deep breath and knocked anyway, hoping some dishevelled madman wouldn’t be the one answering. Or madwoman. A cat lady, maybe, with starved cats on her shoulders, holding the scruffy one that tore poor Patchy’s ear off.

The cat at Yao’s feet began rubbing itself onto his leg, mewling for attention. Yao smiled and rubbed back with his foot, tempted to pick it up just as footsteps hurried behind the door. A chain rattled, the door making a loud clunk before opening. Ivan peeked his head out.

‘You found it!’ Ivan beamed, opening the door wider. The cat hissed and scurried away, leaving its dusty fur trail on Yao’s trousers. Yao laughed, bending down to brush the fur off. Someone smashed a bottle and started yelling in the next door house, Yao’s laughter dying along with it.

‘I did,’ Yao said, standing back up and hoping Ivan couldn’t hear his thoughts somehow, because as much as Yao tried, he couldn’t help but think: _who the hell would want to live here?_ Surely Ivan’s family could afford somewhere better if they could afford to send him to Oldbrook Academy? Even so, Yao kept his mouth shut about finances, following Ivan into his home and going through the usual small talk of recent assignments and what new literary cruelties their English teacher had come up with.

‘This is my sister, Katyusha,’ Ivan said, stopping by the kitchen. A young blonde woman looked up from the counter, dropping the cabbage in her hands with a loud thud. She flashed a shy smile and picked it up.

‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Yao. Vanya has said such nice things about you –’

Ivan pushed Yao further down the hallway with a flustered chuckle. ‘My sister is very busy, we shouldn’t bother her.’

‘Nice things?’ Yao turned his head back towards the kitchen, Katyusha giving him a tiny ‘see you later’ wave.

‘This is my sister Natalya’s room,’ Ivan said, breezing past a closed door without even glancing at it. He stopped at a door at the end of the hallway and opened it. ‘And this is my room. It’s a little small, but at least it stays warmer than the other rooms in the winter…’

Yao walked into the small and cramped bedroom, a bed squeezed to fit against the one side. The other side of the room held a wonky bookcase and a tiny desk, books piled up onto it and crammed into whatever little space there was.

‘You can sit anywhere, I don’t mind. But the desk chair is a little creaky so you might not want to sit there –’

Yao plunked himself down onto the edge of the bed, the muscle of his tired legs sighing in relief. Ivan paused and chuckled.

‘What?’ Yao frowned.

Ivan shook his head. ‘… It’s nothing.’ He hesitated before sitting down next to Yao, looking around the room and seeming as though he was searching for something to say. ‘I… haven’t ever had friends come over. I haven’t really been to a friend’s house either, so forgive me if I do something wrong.’

‘You’ve never had someone come over before?’

Ivan shook his head, hands fidgeting in his lap. Air whistled against the windows, making hissing sounds as it broke in through the hinges. Pots clanged in the nearby kitchen.

Ivan turned to Yao with a sharp inhale. A pause, maybe second-thoughts wavering in his eyes. ‘Let’s play a game.’

Yao scoffed, raising his brow. ‘A game?’

Ivan hummed, nodding his head. ‘You choose one.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re the guest.’

‘You’re the host.’

A tiny smile crept onto Ivan’s lips. ‘Do you really want me to pick the game?’

Yao pulled away, eyeing Ivan with suspicion. ‘You’re making it sound creepier than it should.’

‘We should play Red Hands. Have you ever played it before?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll show you.’  Ivan held his hands out, palms facing upwards. ‘Put your hands on mine.’

Yao pursed his lips, looking between Ivan and his hands.

‘I won’t bite,’ Ivan said, eyes gleaming like those of a toying cat. He lifted his palms up higher. ‘Go on, put your hands here. The game is really simple. All you have to do is put your hands on mine and not get hit.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes, that’s all the game is.’ 

‘Fine,’ Yao said. ‘Sounds simple enough.’ He hovered his hands over Ivan’s, fingertips barely touching at Ivan’s palms. A quiet chuckle left Ivan’s lips.

‘Yaochka’s hands are so small…’ Ivan crooned. Yao flashed an indignant glare at him, only to feel a smack on his hands.

‘ _Aiyah!_ ’ Yao pulled his hands away, skin stinging. ‘That’s not fair! You distracted me!’

‘There are no rules against distraction,’ Ivan said, setting his hands back out towards Yao with a teasing look. ‘You should have kept your focus.’

Yao huffed out in protest, placing his hands back on Ivan’s. ‘I’d like to see you try to fool me twice.’

Ivan only gave a mysterious hum.

‘I’m winning this round,’ Yao said, sitting up straighter. Ivan said nothing, hands wavering beneath Yao’s, constantly shifting in the tiniest of movements so that Yao couldn’t tell when a strike was about to take place. Skin broke away and touched again, cool and soft against Yao’s own sweaty palms. A breath eased out of him shakily, and to his own ears it sounded much too nervous, much too uneasy. Yao hoped Ivan couldn’t hear it this way, that the jitteriness of Yao’s chest was something only he himself could sense.

‘Why don’t we up the stakes?’ Yao said, looking up and deliberately fixing his eyes onto Ivan’s, not wanting to glance away and betray his own unease. Ivan looked so comfortable, ecstatic even, to be sitting so close to Yao. It unnerved him, in an envious kind of way.

‘Does Yaochka have something specific in mind?’

Yao scoffed. ‘Yeah. You have to stop calling me that if I win.’

Ivan’s fingertips were doing something now, tapping lightly, dancing on Yao’s wrists like cold water droplets. ‘And if I win?’

‘Then…’ Yao hesitated in thought, his throat dry as he swallowed. Patterns. Ivan was now making patterns on his wrists, cold fingertips tracing in tiny circles and swirls that was starting to tickle Yao’s hands. Yao wanted to flinch. It was too close, too easy how Ivan was making his pulse flutter. ‘If you win, then…’ A fingertip slid down Yao’s wrist. He yanked his hands away and slapped Ivan’s.

‘That hurt!’ Ivan gasped, cradling his hands to his chest. ‘Yao, you’re not supposed to hit so hard!’

‘Yeah, well –’ Yao stammered, feeling his palms sting. ‘You were going to hit me, so I struck first.’

‘That’s not how you play!’

‘It should be.’

‘Look what you did,’ Ivan said, drawing out his voice like a child as he showed his hands to Yao. He was expecting red marks, but when he got a look at Ivan’s hands, they were pale and unmarked. Not even a scratch. Yao withheld a grin.

‘You’re such a baby. There’s nothing there.’

‘There is,’ Ivan said emphatically. ‘On my soul.’

Yao burst into laughter, feeling the nervous tension in his chest flutter away. He reigned his voice back in, restraining the rest of the flustery laugh that was begging to be released. ‘Well,’ Yao said, looking away when he realised his face was burning. ‘You’ll get over it.’

Ivan hummed, thoughtfully in a way that Yao didn’t like. ‘I still get to call you Yaochka, though.’

Yao turned around, furrowing his brows. ‘No, you don’t.’

‘It wasn’t very clear who won, so –’

‘I hit _you_.’

‘But I hit you the first time.’

‘That one didn’t count!’

‘Then how about this, Yaochka,’ Ivan said with a daring smile. ‘One more round. If you win, I can’t call you Yaochka. But if I win…’ Ivan paused to consider. His eyes darted to Yao with a gleam in them. ‘You have to call me Vanya.’

Yao huffed out. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

‘Go on then, Yaochka,’ Ivan chuckled, the sound of it ringing like taunting bells in the wind. He held his palms out. ‘Prove it to me.’

Yao gave a forced laugh, smacking his hands down on Ivan’s. ‘I will.’

‘We’ll have to see.’

‘ _I will_.’

Ivan only gave a hum, that annoying hum that spoke of a toying cat’s confidence, that its prey would inevitably surrender to him in some way. Yao didn’t like it. In fact, he didn’t like this game at all, and yet here he was going for another round of it. It was going to be the last one, though, it really was because Yao was going to win it and ‘Yaochka’ he would be called no longer.

Tin cans rattled outside. The sunlight from Ivan’s window was low enough to cast a spotlight where they sat, light turning to warmth, warmth turning to scorching heat. By the time Yao’s black trousers felt like they would catch on fire, he had started to question if Ivan was ever actually planning on ending the game. How long had it been now? A minute? Two minutes? Maybe more. And all this time Ivan’s hands had remained steady beneath Yao’s, no strange patterns or games with fingertips. Yao braved a glance up at Ivan, wary of losing focus but curious if Ivan was even trying anymore. Ivan was looking down at Yao’s hands, unaware of Yao’s gaze, his pale lashes almost touching down on his cheeks. It was kind of a lonely look, Yao realised, and with this thought he also had the feeling of wanting to do something about it, though he wasn’t sure what.

‘So,’ Yao started, not sure what he was even trying to do, exactly. He just wanted to say something, anything, because the more seconds ticked by the less this started to feel like a game, and more like something else entirely. ‘Is it… just you and your sisters living here?’ Yao asked, wanting to wince at his own awkward conversation starter.

‘ _Da_ ,’ Ivan said, his palms starting to sway around a little and carrying Yao’s along with them. ‘Just me and my sisters.’

‘Oh.’

‘My parents are dead, if that’s what you want to know.’

Yao looked up at Ivan. ‘Oh, no I didn’t mean to –’

‘It’s okay. They died in a car crash when I was really young, so I barely remember them anyway,’ Ivan said, sunlight crossing over his face and making his hair seem feathery, almost ghost-white. The polite smile on his lips looked fragile enough to break at any moment, gaze averted and soft enough to do something strange to Yao’s chest, like it was flipping his heart over in its rib cage. Like something was wrong with its parts – that white piece of flesh that was so flimsy it seemed it could tear with the slightest flutter. Yao wanted to ask what had happened, to maybe listen to Ivan the way Ivan had so patiently listened to him on that Saturday – only for Yao to hesitate and blurt out an apology instead.

‘I’m sorry,’ Yao said, not knowing what good those words did anyway. Ivan looked up at him, expression softening.

‘You don’t have to be sorry.’

Yao nodded, suddenly all too aware of how quietly they had been talking, how Ivan’s knee kept bumping into Yao’s, how the back of his neck was prickling with sweat. All too aware of how his hands felt glued to Ivan’s, and how the odd game they were playing had shed its pretences to reveal something more intimate than Yao would have liked. How Yao’s thoughts were running away with wonderings of how Ivan’s hands might feel on his face, if they might feel just as cool to the touch, if Ivan would still look just as lonely, maybe –

Ivan’s hands pounced onto Yao’s, grabbing them. Yao flinched, attempting to pull away too late.

‘You have to call me Vanya now,’ Ivan crooned, face beaming with self-satisfaction. Yao felt heat flare up on his skin.

‘N-No!’ Yao tugged his hands back, only to find them held tightly by Ivan’s. ‘No, that doesn’t count! You were supposed to hit me not –’ Yao hesitated, because he wasn’t sure what this was, exactly.

‘You should have pulled back anyway.’ Ivan gave a light-hearted chuckle. ‘Did Yaochka not want to win?’

‘You are not calling me that.’

‘Repeat after me, _da_? Vanya. Vaah-nya. Say it with me.’

‘No!’

‘Come on, Yaochka.’ Ivan tugged at his hands in what was supposed to be encouragement. ‘Say it for me.’

‘I will break your legs for this.’

Ivan chuckled. ‘That would be unfortunate. But worth it.’

Yao fumed with anger, aware of his own balance tipping forward with every tug of the hands that Ivan made. He glared up at him.

‘You can keep me here all you like, but I’m not calling you that.’

Ivan’s eyes brightened with interest. ‘I can keep you here?’

‘No, that’s not – That’s not what I –’ Yao huffed out in frustration. He gave a sudden tug, hoping the surprise might work out in his favour. Barely did anything. ‘What I meant was, I don’t have to do anything. But at some point, you’re going to have to let go.’

Ivan hummed, pushing and pulling Yao’s hands and causing him to sway back and forth like a rag doll. Ivan released a regretful sigh. ‘ _Da_ , I guess I would have to.’

‘Exactly.’ Yao shifted, waiting for Ivan’s hands to let go. ‘So…’

Ivan’s hands opened up slowly, grip softening. Yao pulled away.

‘Do you want to play again?’ Ivan asked, the smile returning to his lips, somehow more boyish and shy than the last. Yao scoffed and darted him a glare.

‘Maybe we should find some other way to spend the time.’

‘Oh?’

Yao made a growled sigh and shoved Ivan at the shoulder. ‘Don’t make such vulgar jokes with me.’ Ivan toppled over giggling, and Yao did his best to withhold the smile begging to grow on his lips.

The rest of the afternoon went by fast, time swallowed up by a short-lived exploration of Ivan’s house, various discoveries of weathered Russian children’s books Katyusha kept and board games Ivan never played. Dinner with Ivan and his sisters had been warm and lively, save for perhaps Natalya who only cracked a smile once when Yao had said his goodbyes at the doorway. Almost too soon he felt that he was out in the dark blue of the evening, crossing out of the yellow light of the open doorway.

‘ _Dasvedanya,_ Yaochka,’ Ivan called out, voice echoing through the street, unapologetically loud in a way that made Yao tense. He raised a hand to wave back, watching the light at his feet and his own elongated shadow disappear.

Humid night breeze enveloped him, and though it was dewy and warm, it made him tremble. His teeth were chattering, and crossing his arms over he realised that even the tips of his fingers were shaking. He suddenly felt brittle, fragile in some way like he would shatter and break into frenzied little pieces at any moment. Neighbourhood dogs barked and howled in the distance – the screeching, mewling cats had gone quiet – and Yao had to fight to keep himself composed, had to force his steps to feel measured. But inside it was a frenzied, ice cold mess, one he didn’t think he could contain if he lingered out here any longer. The ground felt unstable, and it was in taking a glance back at Ivan’s house that he realised he didn’t want to leave.

Walking home in the starless night, Yao wished for Ivan’s hands, cold and lonely as they were. He wished for hearing his name botched and branded in that fond way, for feeling his own chest churn itself inside out at the thought that Ivan was only within an arm’s reach. He wished for things he shouldn’t have, and slept wrapped in bittersweet dreams of flustered smiles and dancing fingertips.


	6. How Near, How Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so - it's been over a month ;-; (blame exams and a bunch of other not-so-pleasant stuff). Anyway, the update is here and it's aaaaalll Alfred - mostly. I hope you enjoy :)

A foreign voice broke through the crackled static – deep, rolling words tumbling out into the darkness, bouncing off the rippling water by Alfred’s feet. The sky had been cut open, the smear of the Milky Way bursting forth with shimmering stars and stringy nebulas, leaving Alfred wanting to float up into it, to let someone, something, take him away into that sky.

A hand touched against his shoulder – Arthur’s hand, calloused and rough from fervent essay writing and clumsy slips of the hand into closing doors – and Alfred knew from the tenderness of that touch that this was only a dream.

‘You’ll miss it,’ Arthur said, lips softly parting with the words, gentle in a way Alfred had heard once before, a long time ago… perhaps in another dream. He turned to look at him, wanting to see if his eyes had become gentler too, only to be nudged to look towards the sky.

Amidst the swirls of dust, the teasing blinks of light that spoke to Alfred of other civilisations, far away and long gone, a glowing, pulsating moon emerged from the darkness, tearing through the sky with a blazing trail of white. Alfred’s breath stopped, even the crickets themselves falling into silence. The foreign voice that had come through the grainy static had quieted, and in the emptiness of sound, the tiny heartbeat of a machine began. Little blips, the chirp of something otherworldly bouncing off the lake, steady as the little moon crossed through the sky.

‘Beautiful… isn’t it?’ Arthur murmured. Alfred turned to look at him, knowing this was a dream and yet hoping that somehow, he would still be looking at the real Arthur, the one who snapped and scowled, the one who could barely say the words ‘I’ll miss you’ when they parted ways in the summer. He wanted that same Arthur to be the one speaking so softly, like there was nothing to hide anymore.

‘I…’ Alfred started, finding his voice weak when his eyes met Arthur’s. ‘I told you so, didn’t I?’ A grin broke out on his face. ‘That they exist. You see it now, don’t you?’

Arthur’s eyes considered him for a moment, hazel green growing cold as the glow of the little moon died out. A tiny smile formed on chapped lips, though Alfred couldn’t tell if it was a pity smile or not.

‘Alfred-’

An awful trill broke through, piercing Alfred’s ears and stealing away Arthur’s words. The dream fell away before he could grasp it, his eyes squinting open to a blank ceiling and the high shrill of his alarm clock.

Alfred groaned and slapped at the clock, hearing its thunk on the floor. His mother called for him from the kitchen downstairs, noises of a toaster popping and his father shutting the door to leave for work. He tumbled out of bed, dragging the sheets down with him in a tangle as he shut his alarm clock off, setting it back onto the dresser and grabbing his glasses.

He eyed the calendar. October 4th, 1957. A Friday, thankfully – the only thing special, really, about a plain date like that. He stumbled up and peeled away the curtains, wincing when the morning light pierced through. The trees outside were yellowed and dried, dropping dead leaves sparingly. Arthur liked them like this, had made a comment about it at some point, probably when he thought Alfred wasn’t even listening. But Alfred was listening, and the sight of these dying trees had somehow become more pathetic because of it.

He huffed out a breath, turning away from the window. Today, he could take his time. Get dressed, eat breakfast, hop into Poppy and take all the detours he liked. Arthur wouldn’t be waiting for him today. And as far as Alfred was concerned, that was just about _fine_.

* * *

The day trudged along at its usual slow pace, from one class to the next, struggling to endure boredom by the minute, by the seconds ticking by in an English class that did not care for how you read but _what_ you read, in a Spanish class that Alfred could only ever remember the words _hola_ and _adios_ for, in a History class that Arthur would not speak to him in. The day had staggered its way to two o’clock, to the final marathon of an hour until Alfred could go home and bury himself in his worn out, read and re-read again comics. But of course, not before sharing his latest UFO findings to anyone with ears.

‘You know,’ Alfred said, hopping with one leg in his gym shorts as he struggled to get the other foot in. ‘I don’t buy that story – the one where people thought the _War of the Worlds_ radio broadcast was real but in the end it was just a dramatic reading? I think it was a total, full-scale experiment.’ Classmates chuckled, humouring him with polite, amused smiles like they always did– but that was okay, they wouldn’t be laughing when they heard this one. ‘You ever wonder why we’re the last to know important stuff? Why the government doesn’t tell us about the flying saucers in the sky? It’s ‘cuz they know we can’t handle it.  We’d go out and steal food, run around screaming in a panic because some guy with a microphone told us the world is ending. _War of the Worlds_ proved that.’

Lockers banged closed, creaking and shuddering as people threw their shoes in, stuffing shirts and trousers into them. A tangle of smoke twisted in the air, rising from a corner where a group of students sat on the floor muttering. No one gave Alfred a glance – those who could excused themselves out of the locker room, and those busy enough to ignore him did. Maybe because his shorts were still bunched around his knees. Yeah, maybe. No one took a shortless guy seriously. He pulled them up and cleared his throat.

‘Orson Welles could be working for _them_ , you know,’ Alfred continued. He looked over to find Arthur curled up on a bench with a book, gaze peeking over the edge to give Alfred a warning glare. ‘Like, maybe they forced his hand or something, like blackmail because I don’t think Welles would willingly work for them or anything, but….’

Arthur sighed and lifted the book up higher. Alfred looked around the room for someone else. A mob of students shoved their way out of the locker room, pushing each other around and laughing. He spotted Yao on a bench nearby, tying up his shoes with Ivan seated next to him. A kid – Soo? Soon Yang? Alfred couldn’t remember his name – walked up to Yao and slammed his locker shut. Yao glanced up, scowling.

‘What was that for?’

‘It was in the way,’ the kid said, shrugging though his lip was curled in distaste. He shoved past Yao, eyes locked in a glare with Ivan as he left the locker room.

Alfred spent a moment busying himself with stuffing his bag into his own locker, not sure what that had all been about. He’d figured Yao would get along pretty well with Soo – actually, now that he thought about it, Yong Soo sounded really familiar – but then again, maybe not. He slipped his shirt on, stomping his shoe onto the bench to tie the laces when Arthur bumped into him.

 ‘Sorry,’ Arthur mumbled.

‘Are you?’ Alfred snorted. Arthur glared at him, harsh and irritated in a way Alfred was pretty much used to. It didn’t hurt him anymore to see that look. It didn’t feel great, but it didn’t feel all that bad either. Maybe he was numb to it. He had seen it so many times this week, under so many different lights and in so many different ways – in the stuffy air of the library, with the low sun glaring through the window and onto Arthur’s freckled face, amidst the papery smell of books Arthur loved so much - in a tucked away corner of the library that Arthur preferred to eat his lunches in since this Tuesday, instead of sitting with Alfred.

The locker beside Alfred creaked open, Arthur’s calloused fingers holding it open – fingers Alfred could still remember the gentleness of from that hazy dream. Alfred finished up his laces and straightened up.

‘Hey,’ Alfred said, clearing his throat as Arthur stuffed his clothes and books into the locker. Arthur didn’t look at him, but he raised a brow. That was still acknowledgement, right? Alfred leaned in closer, hooking his chin around the locker. ‘It’s totally cool with me, you know, if you need a ride-’

‘Forget about dropping me off today,’ Arthur said, yanking the locker door closed. ‘I’m taking the bus.’ He darted a look to Alfred, brow still cocked like he was about to say something haughty. ‘I wouldn’t like to be misinformed and end up walking the full two miles home.’

‘Oh, come _on_ ,’ Alfred pulled back. ‘You can’t seriously still be angry about that!’

Arthur took his time in replying, buttoning up the top of his polo shirt. ‘Yes, I am still angry about that, and yes, Alfred - I am very serious.’

‘I _forgot_ , okay?’

‘Did you.’ Arthur fumbled with the top button. Alfred swatted Arthur’s hands away.

‘No one buttons the top one.’

‘I know that.’ Arthur seethed, backing away.

‘Then don’t button it.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do!’

‘You’ll look like a nosebleed.’

‘I’d rather that than hang around with the likes of you.’ Arthur turned to leave. Alfred grabbed his collar.

‘Okay, no I didn’t mean that I’m sorry-’

Arthur yanked himself away from Alfred, eyes widened in furious indignation. ‘Since when did you become such an insolent git?’

The locker room fell quiet. One of the smoking kids coughed. Alfred felt his throat go a little dry – maybe because it was the first time that being looked at didn’t feel so great, maybe because his hand had done a stupid thing like clawing onto Arthur as if he was some desperate kid.

‘Since…’ Alfred croaked. ‘Since when did you become so… Arthur…ish...’

Arthur clacked his tongue in annoyance and left, the door slamming shut with a tremble. He looked around the locker room and forced a laugh, hoping someone would say something, anything, so Alfred wouldn’t have to. No one spoke a word. People resumed their own business, shuffling about and slowly emptying out the locker room. A group of students still lingered at the back, smoking away like chimneys before having to break their backs doing push-ups for being late. Yao was still on the bench, tying his hair up into a higher ponytail. Ivan was seated next to him, the only one looking directly at Alfred.

Alfred huffed out, not liking the curious look on Ivan’s face. ‘What are you looking at?’

Ivan blinked, and for a moment – just a tiny, speck of a moment – Alfred could swear the damn Russian had smiled. ‘You don’t do so well at arguments when people are talking back, do you?’

Alfred slammed his locker shut. ‘Stick to your own business, pal,’ he spat out, heading for door and hearing Ivan murmur something. He turned his head back when he reached the doorway, checking if the oddball of a guy was still staring at him. He wasn’t. Instead, Ivan had turned to look at the next curiosity, watching Yao struggle with a tangle of hair.

‘You’re not helping,’ Yao growled. Ivan chuckled.

‘Do you want me to?’

Yao scoffed, but there was something of a smile on his lips, a gentle curve that reminded Alfred of dream-Arthur, of unrestrained, honest Arthur, who didn’t have to hide behind anger and annoyance. Alfred felt something ugly snap in him, distaste for how close Yao and Ivan were sitting, bitterness stemming from a place he couldn’t really name.

Alfred yanked the door open and walked out into the sweat-stenched hallway.

* * *

The ball skidded across the grass, rolling furiously towards Ivan as he ran across the field. Panting, he prepared to kick it, aiming for the goal that would prove him to be more than a ghost, more than just an invisible foreign kid or the timid giant. Not just to his classmates, who probably hadn’t even intended to pass the ball to Ivan in the first place, but to Yao, whose gaze always felt present, always there in Ivan’s mind even at the loneliest and most mundane of moments.

His foot brushed against the ball, aim slipping when a body slammed into Ivan. He fell to the muddy grass, breath knocked out of him as his chest hit the ground. Flecks of grass were flung into his eyes as other players ran past him, shouting in voices that didn’t care as the ball flew in the other direction. He propped himself up, scraped knees and elbows burning, eyes stinging with every blink. The whistle shrieked.

‘Why don’t you let Brandon take your place?’ the coach yelled from the side-lines. ‘Go sit on the bench.’

Ivan sat up in the grass, daring a look at the bench with eyes that were threatening to water from the embarrassment. Empty. But next to the bench, on the grass with his legs criss-crossed and eyes watching in curiosity – Yao.

‘Did you hear me?’ the coach yelled again. The ball whizzed over Ivan’s head. He stood up on wobbly knees and nodded, not wanting to make a fool of himself again, not wanting to sit here like some sad child though he had, for a moment, wanted to cry.

He took a seat at the bench, offering a trembling smile to Yao and watching Brandon run onto the field and immediately catch the ball between his feet, passing it to a sweaty-faced Alfred and then receiving it back, weaving across the field with it – just like that. Effortless. Easy, to mend yourself in when you weren’t Ivan.

Yao sighed on the ground next to him. ‘You could have scored, you know.’

Ivan looked to Yao, the lump in his throat still caught in his voice. ‘Really?’

Yao nodded, slow and with a face of approval that could only have been imitated from somewhere, from some business man finding a good price, or perhaps some politician’s many-years-wise agreement. ‘Yeah. If Alfred hadn’t shoved you.’

Ivan blinked – he hadn’t realized it was Alfred who had shoved him. ‘Oh.’ He chuckled and brushed the dirt off his knees. ‘I don’t know… I don’t think I would have scored anyway.’

Yao scoffed. ‘You’re too humble! Brag a little…’ He stretched a leg out and reached for it, muttering something when his hands stopped halfway down his shin. Ivan leaned over the rail of the bench, watching Yao’s fingers wriggle and struggle to reach further towards his toes. A tug of a smile crept on Ivan’s lips.

‘What are you doing?’

Yao darted a glance at Ivan, fingers pausing in their desperate dance for a second. ‘Nothing,’ Yao said, resuming to reach, even trying to tilt his toes closer with a huff of breath. ‘Just… I’m sure I could touch my toes before I came to Oldbrook.’

‘Maybe you are out of practice?’

A forced laugh burst out of Yao, his face turning pink. ‘No… No, I can do it. I’m sure.’

‘You might pull a muscle like that,’ Ivan said, drawing his voice out in a lilted croon and watching with delight as Yao’s mouth twitched in annoyance.

‘N-No, I won’t.’

‘You look like you might.’

Yao pulled back and huffed out an irritated breath. ‘I said I _won’t_. You just watch.’ He got up and dusted the grass of his shorts, reaching back down to touch his toes again, only to stop short by a centimetre or two. Ivan hummed.

‘That’s pretty close.’

‘Shut up,’ Yao snapped, stretching his fingers out as if they might grow by doing so. Ivan laughed, ignoring Yao’s muttered curses and finding giddy amusement in the way Yao’s face was reddening, the way his legs and shoulders were trembling as if they might crumble at the slightest touch. Yao’s ponytail tumbled over his shoulder, sliding off a back Ivan knew to be marked by a slash-like scar, a scar Yao had dismissed in the locker room as ‘just a weird birthmark’ when Ivan had asked. Hands stretching and dangling down in the scorching sunlight, cute palms that Ivan could remember the softness of. Trapped, he watched the quivering of every shape on Yao, the curve of his calves and the jutting of his shoulder blades, unwittingly piecing together a map of Yao from these stolen glances, these looks that Ivan knew to be dangerous, to be wrong in some way he couldn’t fully understand.

‘There are sick people out there, Vanya,’ Katyusha had once told him, a newspaper in her hands and a pitiful look in her eyes. ‘You must always be careful, and be _good_. Don’t let anyone convince you to do something you know is wrong.’ When Ivan had asked what had upset her, what that newspaper had said, she only shook her head and folded the newspaper away. ‘You are still too young.’

But fourteen had not felt all that young to Ivan – he fished the newspaper out of the bin the first chance he got, curious as he searched for what could have made Katyusha so upset. Of course, there were many upsetting things – deaths and nuclear war paranoia, a woman arrested for refusing to sit at the back of the bus –  but among all those there was something vague and strange, a newspaper article in which words were cloaked in adult-speak, so that perhaps children could not read what they were not supposed to see. The article spoke of ‘deviates’ infiltrating small communities, of men – subversives, perverts, _predators_ – being put on trial for ‘gross indecency’, for ‘shameful behaviour’ that not even the newspaper itself could bear to spell out.

At the time, Ivan did not know what to make of exactly, but he knew that Katyusha had not wanted him to see it, that it was something even she felt ashamed about on behalf of these men. And now, he wondered if that shame would cross her face, knowing that he wished to hold Yao’s hands in his again.

The bench trembled next to him, the bump of a shoulder knocking Ivan out of his daze. He looked over to find Yao sinking into the bench, arms crossed and eyes drawn pensively to the field.

‘Did you do it?’ Ivan asked. Yao blinked his gaze over to Ivan. ‘Did you touch your toes?’

Yao’s eyes flickered back to the field. ‘Yeah…’ He sighed, chest rising and falling. ‘I did.’

A tiny smile quirked onto Ivan’s lips. He leaned in closer. ‘Yaochka can tell me if he didn’t.’

‘You think they’ll let me play soon?’ Yao said, too quickly and too hastily to hide the lie in. ‘We’re already halfway through the game and I haven’t even stepped on the field yet.’

Ivan hummed, wondering if he was just seeing things when Yao’s ears appeared to be becoming tinged with red. ‘They were supposed to send you in when I got out… I think…’

Yao scoffed, as if he’d expected the answer. His foot twitched restlessly like a cat’s tail, dark eyes following the ball on the field. He never turned his head though, when the ball had been kicked all the way to the goal, much too far out to see without tilting your head. Ivan kept this distance, this closeness, because it was so easy, so satisfying to see Yao change expressions and to see skin flushed slightly when Yao finally turned his head to face Ivan.

‘You should come over to my house this Saturday.’

Ivan paused, the closeness now, not so easy. He struggled to keep his eyes on Yao’s. ‘This Saturday?’

‘Yeah,’ Yao said. ‘You didn’t stay for dinner last time. And I’ve had dinner at yours, so…’

Ivan nodded, maybe too eagerly, too hastily. ‘Yes – I would be glad.’ The words simmered for a moment, overturning themselves and ringing back in Ivan’s head as once again, too eager. He pursed his lips.

Yao smiled and gave a sharp nod, seeming satisfied with the answer before turning back to watch the playing field.

‘Will Shinatty be there?’ Ivan asked. Yao jabbed him with his elbow.

‘ _Aiyah!_ Don’t-’ Yao gave Ivan a furious look. ‘You’re going to make me regret this, aren’t you?’

A chuckle bubbled out of Ivan, uneasiness melting away. ‘I hope not.’

Yao sighed, sinking back into his seat and looking away, brows still pinched in irritation. Ivan wanted to perch his chin on Yao’s shoulder, maybe, to bother him some more so that Yao could make that flushed, wide-eyed look again. Instead, he looked to the field and watched the ball bounce endlessly back and forth across the field, too scared to reach out a little further, to take a step over a line he hadn’t realized existed until now.

Looking at Yao, thinking of Yao – it all felt tainted by the strange words he had seen in a newspaper long ago, and the disappointment Katyusha’s voice might hold.

* * *

The ball hit hard against the wall, bouncing back into Alfred’s hand. He hurled it at the wall again, the baseball smacking into the middle of his _Killers from Space_ poster before falling into his lap. He threw it again, again, throwing it harder until his mother downstairs yelled at him to stop. Alfred gave an unconvincing ‘okay’, before throwing the ball at his wall again. The poster tore away from one of the pins holding it up, half of it now hanging limp.

Alfred sighed and flopped back onto his bed. The sky outside was growing cold, dipping into violet hues that only made the irritated, bursting feeling from his chest grow. Friday evening, precious Friday evening ticking by and here he was lying in bed with a sorry-looking torn poster on his wall. He hadn’t meant to tear it exactly – just like he hadn’t meant to forget about debate on Monday, either – but it happened. Not Alfred’s fault. He just… went home without Arthur without realizing. It happens. Stuff just _happens_.

The radio by his bed grew quiet, the broadcaster’s garble thinning away. Music burst through the speakers, Paul Anka’s trembling voice moaning about an older Diana he couldn’t have. Alfred’s foot swung along with the music, savouring it though the track had been played several times a day for the past few weeks. He liked most songs on the radio, but this one was special. This one, Arthur liked, too, swinging his own foot though he claimed to find the song ‘needy’ and ‘desperate’. A small smile crept onto Alfred’s lips, glad for that one time, at least, of actually being _with_ Arthur. Not against him, not fighting an uphill battle of trying to earn a simple ‘yes’ or ‘I understand’. _With_ Arthur, enjoying a passing tune like friends were meant to do. Not – not taking things so _seriously_.

The radio zipped, the music coming to a crackling halt. ‘We interrupt this broadcast for an important announcement. We have received breaking news that the Soviet Union has, at 3:29 p.m. ET, launched the first man-made satellite into space.’

Alfred shot up in his bed, staring at the radio like it had sprouted wings.

‘At 18,000 miles an hour, 560 miles up in the sky, this 184-pound globe will, in a few moments, pass over the United States of America in its orbit. Viewers should be assured that this is _not_ a Soviet attack, as far as we know…’

‘Holy mother of …’ Alfred flopped back into bed, head swimming and spinning with thoughts of a metallic moon zipping through American skies. Almost alien, almost fictional, almost too surreal.

‘Listen now,’ the broadcaster said. ‘for the sound of the world’s first satellite, and mankind’s farthest frontier.’

The radio went quiet, static muffling softly. Alfred stilled his breath, searching for the sound. Then, a tiny, chirped beep. And another. Another. A steady pattern of deep-beep-beep, pulsing from outer space, from places Alfred never imagined to ever live to hear from. His chest tightened, lips stretched taut into an excited grin as the satellite continued to sing with its chirps, the sound beautiful and strange and just somehow too good to be true.

He grabbed the radio and scrambled out into the hallway, almost tripping down the stairs. He jumped down onto the landing, stumbling for the phone and ringing up numbers with trembling fingers.

A ring. Two rings.

_Pick up, man. Pick up the phone..._

The rings continued on. Somewhere in the living room he heard his mother gasp, the gentle clink of his father setting his glasses on the coffee table.

‘Kirkland residence,’ Arthur said, voice monotonous on the other side of the phone.

‘Arthur!’ Alfred gulped, trying not to pant too heavily into the phone. ‘Arthur, man, you gotta listen to this!’ He cradled the phone into the crook of his neck and lifted the small radio up to the receiver.

A scoff from Arthur. ‘I really don’t have time for this-’

‘Listen!’

Quiet. The chirping sounds had disappeared, replaced by the broadcaster’s voice. ‘And now, back with the programme, ladies and gentlemen….’

‘Is this a joke?’ Arthur spat.

‘No! No, you missed it! There was an announcement and it was an actual flying satellite in outer space and you could hear it and it was so amazing, like holy smokes Arthur-’

‘I thought you didn’t want to talk to me about your alien theories anymore.’

Alfred paused, brows furrowing. ‘But this isn’t – I’m not lying. And…’ He swallowed, not sure if he should spit out the words on his lips. ‘And I only said I didn’t want to talk about aliens before because… because you were being so difficult about the UFO debate.’

‘You won that debate. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Well, yeah, obviously – but I mean, not really. No. I-I don’t know.’

The line fell quiet, and for a moment Alfred thought Arthur had closed the phone, until a sigh broke through.

‘Enjoy your weekend, Alfred.’

The clunk of the phone closing sounded in Alfred’s ear before he could say anything more. Pursing his lips, he withheld a curse, a frustrated mutter of hate that was childishly begging to be released. He slammed the phone closed, some sickly sweet love-song crooning from the radio. His mother was speaking rapidly, shrill and panicked in the living room over the television’s six o’ clock news. His father called out to him.

‘Alfred?’

‘Yeah?’  Alfred croaked, swallowing and trying not to hate Arthur in that moment, trying to convince himself that this was as it always was – banter and nit-picky fights without an end in sight. That Arthur didn’t really hate him either, not really.

‘Turn off the music. It’s late.’

Alfred mumbled back in agreement, switching off the radio and heading back upstairs to his room. In bed later that evening, he left his curtains drawn open, hoping in some way he might catch a glimpse of that satellite before he fell asleep, though the magic of that idea had lost its charm without Arthur’s stupid blessing. Everything about outer space, about aliens, about truth as Alfred knew it, lost its shine with every cynical word of Arthur’s.

 _You can’t possibly consider that a victory, Alfred_ – yes, he remembered that, how Arthur had said it so pompously, in that thickly layered tone of knowing it all, of knowing _better_ , of throwing aside whatever Alfred said as ridiculous. He had won that debate. Alfred had won it, and it felt good, and for the first time he was starting to think that maybe this debate thing Arthur loved so much had something to it, only for it to get dashed down by a petty ‘ _that doesn’t count’_.

He couldn’t remember why Arthur had said that, or what Alfred had done wrong, but he didn’t really care anymore. He closed his eyes, and in that tiny spark of resentment, he could finally admit to himself that he had not perhaps, forgotten about picking Arthur up after debate that Monday after all.

* * *

Autumn leaves spun from their yellowed trees, twisting in the blustery wind of a quiet Saturday evening. Alfred stepped out of his car, crushing a dried leaf on the picture-perfect sidewalk of Millionaire’s Row, looking straight ahead, without a glance, without even a _thought_ of looking towards Arthur’s home a few houses down. Because, no, he wasn’t here for him, not here to keep on playing this stupid game of fake-not-fake-annoyance. He was here for people who wanted to have fun, who actually knew a good time when they saw it. In other words, anyone but Arthur.

He hopped up the porch steps, rapping on the door with loud and hard knocks. No answer. He tried again, this time hearing Yao’s voice speaking animatedly on the other side of the door. The click of a lock, and the door opened by a few centimetres. Yao’s face peeked out.

‘Oh. Hey, Alfred.’ Yao blinked, brows furrowing. ‘Are… we on the same team for debate again, or…?’

‘No, nothing like that!’ Alfred laughed, _forced_ the laugh if he was being frank with himself, and sighed. ‘I got an idea today, Yao, and it’s gonna be _great-_ ’

‘What’s going on?’ Ivan asked, peeking out with his chin on top of Yao’s head. At the sight of Alfred, his lips curved into a smile that for some reason, didn’t seem all that friendly. ‘Ah… what are you doing here?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Alfred kept his own smile plastered on, despite being absolutely, positively sure this guy hated his guts. ‘Just visiting my buddy, Yao. Being friendly.’

Murder in Ivan’s eyes. Alfred could see it, almost feel it even, daggers and knives and horrors somewhere in the depths of that creepy smile. He laughed, even though his gut was starting to tighten a little in fight-or-flight mode. If it came to that, though, fight was – quite obviously – the way to go. No doubt about it. Alfred could take Ivan out, if he had to. Yeah. Definitely.

Yao cleared his throat, gingerly ducking out of Ivan’s frame and darting his gaze between the two. ‘Arthur said you weren’t coming to debate anymore.’

‘I said it wasn’t about that.’ Alfred chuckled, yet another forced laugh, wondering how many of those he even had left before going into a coughing fit. ‘I was gonna ask you if you wanted to go see Sputnik together. You know – the uh… the Commie moon in the sky?’ Alfred burst into a hesitant laugh, waiting for some kind of response. Yao only gave a blank face, and Ivan… he was doing the murder-knives-and-horrors look again. His laughter faltered. ‘Ivan can come, too, if he wants… I guess…’

Yao opened his mouth to speak, only for Ivan to get there first.

‘ _Nyet_ , we are too busy. But we appreciate the offer. Goodbye-’ Ivan reached to close the door, only for Yao to clack his tongue and keep the door open.

‘ _Aiyah_ , is this your house to be closing the door on people with?’ Yao snapped. He turned to Alfred, parting his lips to speak.

‘Don’t worry about it, man,’ Alfred blurted out. ‘No problem…’ He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels when the conversation seemed to have died. A tiny smirk quirked onto his lips. ‘So what are you guys are busy doing?’

Yao hesitated. ‘Ah… we’re not really all that _busy_ -’

‘We’re playing with plush toys,’ Ivan blurted out, beaming with childish pride. Yao elbowed him, face growing scarlet.

‘Do you _have_ to advertise it?’

‘Why, is it bad to tell people?’

Yao made a growled sigh, hand on the door, looking like it was itching to slam it closed. Alfred took a step closer to the door, withholding a snicker.

‘That’s uh…’ Alfred huffed out, really trying not to laugh. ‘Wow. Okay, well. I think I got a much cooler way to pass the time, though. We’re talking space, guys. I know the perfect spot to watch Sputnik, and it’s going to be real great, okay? So you guys with me? Or do you wanna, uh…’ Alfred snorted, unable to help himself. ‘Do you wanna go back to playing with dolls?’

Yao’s eyes widened with indignation, crossing his arms and darting a glance at Ivan before looking to Alfred. ‘ _Aiyah_ … when you put it that way… Fine. Sure.’

‘But Yao-’

‘Good choice, my man,’ Alfred said, hopping down the porch steps. ‘Now if you’ll follow me…’ He headed for Poppy, beautiful Poppy glistening in the evening dusk, and jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘Hop on in, guys.’

Yao gave Alfred a sceptical look before climbing into the back seat, Ivan following and taking a seat next to Yao. Alfred glanced at them in the rear-view mirror and grinned.

‘You guys too chicken to sit at the front?’

‘You mean smart,’ Yao said. ‘I’ve seen people drive down this road. I’m not sitting at the front for that.’

‘Ivan, you chicken too?’

Ivan said nothing, gazing far off at some tree in feigned interest. Alfred waited for a moment, only to burst out into a dismissive laugh. He turned the keys in the ignition, the engine flaring up with a thrum.

‘Prepare for the ride of your lives, gang.’

* * *

Wheels crawled across the dirt, reeds brushing up against Poppy’s glossy coat. The car halted at the edge of a small lake, the engine hushing.

‘Is it over yet?’ Ivan groaned, curled up with his head buried against his drawn up knees. ‘I think the blood stopped flowing to my head for a minute…’

‘I think now we know who the chicken is,’ Alfred laughed, grinning at Yao. He waited for a response. ‘Y-You know, because before-’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Yao said, not a glint of amusement in his expression.

Alfred’s grin weakened. ‘Well. Okay, then.’ He got out of the car to stretch his legs and crack his knuckles, checking his wristwatch. ‘If the newspaper’s got this right, Sputnik should be passing over at around 7:15. It’s… sevenish now, so get ready, okay guys?’

Ivan mumbled in half-hearted agreement, climbing up to rest on the backseats and nearly taking up the entire space. Yao flinched and pulled away, pushing Ivan’s head away from his lap.

‘ _Aiyah_ , what do you think you’re doing? Stay on your side!’

‘There is space… You’ll fit….’

Yao fumed, opening the car door and stepping out. ‘You’re such a child.’

‘No, don’t go,’ Ivan whined, hand blindly fumbling in the air before giving up and flopping back onto the seat with a resigned sigh. Yao climbed into the passenger’s seat at the front, shutting his door with a loud bang – the sight, somehow, familiar to Alfred. Of annoyed, childish protests, of frowns and blurry lines between jokes and arguments. Alfred sat at the driver’s seat, amidst the sulky silences between Ivan and Yao, and busied himself with the radio, tuning stations though it was too early to start.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Yao asked, sinking into the car seat and looking up at the now-purple sky. Static crackled on the radio.

‘I don’t really know. People say it’s like a little blip in the sky. But you can hear it, too.’

‘Hear what?’

‘The satellite.’ Alfred looked to Yao. ‘You know – the deep-beep-beep.’

Yao blinked. ‘What’s a deep-beep-beep?’

‘The satellite!’

‘Doing what?’

‘I-I don’t know,’ Alfred said, turning back to his radio. ‘Scanning America for the perfect place to drop a nuke on us or something.’

‘What?’ Ivan shifted in the backseat. ‘Sputnik is a weapon?’

‘Uh-’ Alfred burst into a hesitant chuckle. ‘No… No – guys, that was a joke. Sputnik is just a satellite wandering around the Earth. I think.’

Yao and Ivan quieted, leaving Alfred to ease out a breath of impatience as he tuned the radio through static and the occasional music or news station. He glanced at his watch. Ten past seven. A few more minutes to go. Ravens laughed in the forested distance, their throaty cackles echoing across the lake. The water shivered in the wind, but there were no stars in it, no beautiful colours like the dream Alfred had. Only murky, depthless water.

When the few minutes left to go had passed, the sky had darkened in hue, the air cooler and the night crickets louder. Alfred looked up and searched the sky, not seeing a bursting galaxy, nor beautiful nebulas as he had somehow hoped he would see. In the far corner of his view, beneath a cloud, a tiny speck caught the glint of the sun on it, gliding across the sky. Alfred shoved at Yao’s shoulder.

‘Hey-’

‘I see it, I see it,’ Yao shoved back.

‘Where?’ Ivan sat up, resting his arms onto the back of the front seats.

‘There,’ Yao pointed up. ‘The little dot.’

Having almost forgotten, Alfred frantically turned the dial on the radio, searching for the right frequency. He slowed down, turning the dial by the tiniest of movements, until a tiny beep echoed out. Alfred stopped still, and like a delicate heartbeat, the satellite continued to pulse as it floated across the sky, piercing through clouds, through dusk. Alfred’s chest felt like it would burst at the sight, a smile breaking across his lips as he watched what should have been a dream, or perhaps a delusion. A satellite – a real-life, man-made moon – was now spinning around the earth, higher up than mankind had ever reached. The sky looked so foreign to Alfred now, so strange now that it had a flying piece of metal in it, but it was more than Alfred could ever hope to see. He managed to tear his gaze off from the sky, wanting to laugh, to cheer, to say something though he didn’t know what, but he wanted to share this, somehow –

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Ivan murmured, his head perched on Yao’s shoulder. Yao hummed, indifferently almost, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch away when Ivan moved closer, moved his lips closer. Were they – ?

Alfred darted his glance away from them, feeling as though he had pried into something private, into something neither he nor anyone else was meant to see. The ringing of the satellite lost its charm, the sky losing a bit of its dark blue depth, as Alfred’s chest sank with an odd sense of grief. Unable to help himself, he glanced back at Ivan and Yao, finding them apart now, Ivan seated back, Yao still staring at the sky though the satellite had long passed them by.

 The little moon now faded, the pulse of it gone, Alfred stared ahead onto the lake, gentle waves and singing crickets filling up the strange silence. He didn’t know what he saw. In the sky, in Yao and Ivan, in the memories of dreams that were too vivid let go of. He didn’t know what was there and what wasn’t, what perhaps he had filled in and pieced together himself and what was real. But somewhere in there, there was Arthur. Fond and smiling Arthur, who Alfred had only ever seen within the realms of wishful thinking.

He started up the engine, but not even the roar of it could steal away the timid hope brimming in his chest.

* * *

_Alfred, what in the bloody nine circles of hell are you doing?_

That’s what Arthur would say, isn’t it? That’s what Arthur would say if he saw Alfred now, climbing up the drainage pipe, foot slipping and hands grating against the metal as he hauled himself up. He would be peering over the balcony, eyes narrow and voice tinged with the kind of irritation that often only made Alfred smile rather than frown. He would tell Alfred he was being foolish, that he was going to break a leg like this and should stop being such a fool.

The crickets lowered their hum as he scrambled up onto Arthur’s bedroom balcony, the night hushing with the rustle of leaves in the wind. Excitement sparked in his chest, in his shaky legs, knowing that he was doing something he wasn’t meant to be doing. Because really, you only climbed up balconies if you wanted to rob a place, or if you were out to meet up with a girl, maybe. Some coy Juliet with a sharp tongue. But no, Alfred wasn’t a thief, and Arthur wasn’t any Juliet, either, save for perhaps the sharp tongue.

Almost lying on Arthur’s balcony, sprawled, he watched the dark sky for stars as he waited for his panting breaths to ease. Nervous? No, not nervous, not really. Tired. Tired was more like it, because he had just climbed up a two story drainage pipe and that had somehow felt riskier than zipping down a highway by a cliff in his Chevy. And then there was Arthur, who might not even open the balcony doors for him. He closed the phone on him, shut and slammed doors whenever possible around Alfred, glared and looked away, tutted and said nothing more, always avoiding since that forgotten Monday afternoon. Alfred could do the same, if not better, at this game, but he wouldn’t take part, not this time.

He crawled up to his feet, catching the warm sliver of light escaping the curtains through the glass. He knocked, quiet at first, a little louder when no answer came, and even louder when there was no response still.

The curtains yanked open, a scowling Arthur glaring at him through the glass. _Go away,_ Arthur mouthed. Alfred grinned and shook his head. He knocked again. Arthur tensed, biting his lip before opening the balcony door by a crack.

‘My father is just downstairs, he will bloody hear you-’ Arthur hissed. Alfred yanked the balcony door further open and stepped into Arthur’s room.

‘Thanks, man.’

‘I’m sorry, did I _let_ you in?’ Arthur whipped around, still hissing.

Alfred shrugged, unable to shake off the grin on his lips, a kind of jittery giddiness from hearing Arthur’s voice, though he had only spoken to him on the phone a day ago. ‘I wanted to see you.’

Arthur raised a brow, gently shutting the balcony door. ‘Oh. And you couldn’t do that through normal means of visitation? A front door, Alfred? Have you ever heard of one of those?’

‘Like you’d answer the door.’

‘Like I’d be more likely to answer the balcony door.’

‘Well, you did, didn’t you?’

Arthur pursed his lips, fury still knitted in his brows as he hesitated for a comeback. ‘Just – go home. You’re not welcome here.’

‘Look, I’m _sorry_ , okay?’

‘Your apologies won’t do any good,’ Arthur snapped. ‘I think you’ve made it quite clear that you’re not interested in doing anything unless it glorifies you somehow, so no, that’s alright. Debate will continue on without you. I’ll just mind my own business.’

‘I forgot once! Just once, like holy smokes, man-’

‘I don’t think you forgot,’ Arthur laughed, but it was dry, mocking. ‘You didn’t want to turn up and lose, or god forbid, win without my blessing.’

‘What are you, my dad? What blessing? It’s just a stupid debate, no one cares!’

‘Really. So – you don’t care, either?’

‘No!’

‘Then I think we’re sorted, Alfred. Don’t worry your little head about debate. Don’t worry about me getting in the way of your life of victory parades-’

‘No, wait-’

‘You can go along back home now,’ Arthur said, opening the balcony door. ‘And have a lovely night’s rest, because Arthur will rain on your parade no more.’

‘That’s not what I-’ Alfred started, huffing out. ‘That’s not what I meant-’

‘Go on. Leave.’ Arthur’s voice hardened.

‘Arthur-’ Alfred reached out, not wanting this, not wanting more vicious glares and spitting words.

‘Don’t touch me.’ Arthur grabbed his hand, stopping it from reaching his shoulder.

‘No.’

‘Don’t.’

‘ _You_ don’t,’ Alfred reached with his other hand, only to also get stopped by Arthur. Hands locked, their arms wrestled, vying for something Alfred didn’t even know anymore. Alfred pushed back harder, knocking Arthur into the balcony window. A sting of guilt, weakening his arms.

‘Sorry-’ Alfred said, almost backing off when Arthur only shoved back. He stumbled, surprised by the surge of strength from Arthur.

‘You’re such an idiot!’

Alfred almost tripped backwards, fighting for his balance back. ‘What – _I’m_ the idiot?’ Alfred seethed, pushing back, arms twisting and bending with Arthur’s, resisting and fighting not to completely overthrow Arthur though he knew he could. ‘I’ve been apologizing the whole week and _I’m the idiot_?’

‘You didn’t just forget debate, Alfred. You-’ Arthur grunted, feet almost slipping up against the floor. ‘You drove home and completely forgot about me.’

‘So you walked home for once! Poor you!’

‘You – ’Arthur’s eyes widened, face flushed and lips curled as if to say something vile. He hesitated, before spitting out the words. ‘I bloody hate you!’

‘Yeah, well – I hate you, too! DDT, my man,’ Alfred panted, increasing the strength of each push with every letter. ‘D…D…T-’

They stumbled and crashed into the wardrobe, Arthur’s head banging onto the door with a thunk as they fell. Arms still tangled, Arthur hissed in pain.

‘Fuck,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Hey-’

‘You could have killed me,’ Arthur snapped, cradling the back of his head with a wince. ‘I think I’m entitled to vulgar language. Christ, you’re such a prude for a brute…’

Alfred pulled himself up, chest still heaving, rage quickly draining from his veins when the thought of having actually hurt Arthur hit him. ‘You okay? Look, I know I’ve said this like, a hundred times this week, but I’m so sorry-’

Arthur held his hand up. ‘Spare me the speech.’ He sighed, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘You… look sorry enough already, I suppose.’

Alfred opening his mouth to reply, only to be cut off.

‘Also, what the _bugger_ did you mean by DDT?’

‘Oh…’ Alfred hesitated, not sure if he really meant what he said anymore. ‘Uh… Yeah, DDT. It means, like, it’s sort of like saying…’ He swallowed, realizing there wasn’t really a way around it. ‘It’s… It means Drop Dead Twice.’

Arthur slow-blinked, chest rising softly beneath Alfred. A dry smile tugged at his lips. ‘Oh, and what, look like you?’

A chuckle burst out from Alfred, hearing the laughter catch onto Arthur’s breaths, too. ‘That’s harsh, man.’

‘I know it is. But it’s true. You look like a bloody mess.’

‘I look just fine.’

‘You’ve got mud on your shoes and jeans. You didn’t even properly button up your shirt. Your hair is a mess-’

‘It’s always like this-’

‘And your glasses are filthy.’

‘I’m a busy guy, okay?’

Arthur scoffed. He shifted in an attempt to sit up, darting a look at Alfred. ‘Alright then, busy guy. Move so I can stand up.’

‘Oh. Yeah, sure,’ Alfred scrambled off Arthur, clearing his throat and trying to fight the heat crawling through his skin. He stood up and dusted his jeans off. Footsteps creaked outside the bedroom door.

‘Bugger me,’ Arthur muttered, looking around the room. He pulled open the wardrobe doors. ‘Get in there.’

‘What-’

‘ _Now_.’

Alfred climbed into the wardrobe, crouched among shoeboxes and the fresh smell of clean clothes. The wardrobe doors shut on him just as the bedroom door creaked open, Arthur’s father asking what all the noise was about. Arthur brushed off the question, insisting that he had only just tripped over. His father asked about hearing another voice. Arthur made some flimsy excuse about listening to the radio before. His father closed the door, a somewhat not entirely convinced ‘alright’ muttered before leaving.

Light flooded in as Arthur opened the wardrobe doors, the outline of his shoulder sinking with a short sigh.

‘Please tell me you came here for more than just a pitiful apology. And a wrestle.’

‘Actually,’ Alfred crawled out of the wardrobe, a grin cracking onto his lips. ‘I did, man. _Sputnik_.’

Arthur gave a resigned hum. ‘Yes, I figured you’d go mad over a Russian satellite. But I’ll have you know, you can’t drop nuclear weapons from a vessel as small as that, so no need for you to try to convince me otherwise-’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Alfred said. ‘I just wanted to see it.’

Arthur raised a brow. ‘From my room?’

‘Your balcony, man,’ Alfred said, closing the wardrobe doors behind him and leaning back against them. ‘With you.’

Arthur’s expression softened, eyes smouldering into something warmer – at least that’s what Alfred thought he could see, for that flicker of a moment, that heart-lurching, fleeting second. He brushed back his own fringe, waiting for a response, feeling the slight dampness of sweat on his skin from the wrestling, or the closet, maybe.

‘Alright,’ Arthur said, clearing his throat. ‘When are we expecting Sputnik to pass over?’

Alfred’s face lit up, a swell in his chest as he proudly announced the next approximate time for Sputnik’s passing over. They sat out on the balcony, craning their necks to the sky until getting tired enough to just lie flat instead. Cool, dewy night breeze bathing Alfred’s skin, the air almost sweet to the taste, he outstretched his arms and folded them behind his head, feeling at ease, safe even though the endless, dark sky seemed to threaten to fall on them both.

‘Hey,’ Alfred started, tilting his head towards Arthur. Arthur glanced over, stiffly as though he were lying on a bed of needles.

‘Yes, Alfred?’

‘Is it… like. Am I still kicked out of the debate club?’

Arthur frowned. ‘Who said you were kicked out?’

Alfred shrugged. ‘Well, I mean-’

‘You kicked yourself out, I suppose.’

‘Yeah-’

‘Are you asking if I’ll take you back?’

Alfred turned to look back at the sky, shifting on the balcony floor. ‘If… you want me. Like, you don’t have to or anything.’

A pause, filled in by the sweeping of trees and humming of crickets. ‘I’d like you back on the debate team, then.’

‘… Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘You really want me on the debate team?’

‘Yes.’

‘You abso-positutely want me?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘ _Yes_ , Alfred. How many times do I have to say that? I would like you on the debate team.’

‘Okay,’ Alfred chirped, a breeze rolling over and swaying the trees in the distance. The fabric of Arthur’s shirt rustled next to him.

‘Don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been sulking about this whole time.’

Alfred peered at Arthur, who was now propped up onto his elbow. ‘Uh… sulking about what?’

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, before sighing and flopping back into his resting position. ‘Christ, you really are such a child…’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

Clouds breaking off overhead, wind coursing through them and carrying them away, Alfred expected to see Sputnik cruising through. But there was only a tranquil sea of black, islands of clouds and drops of starlight. Still, he didn’t feel disappointment in his chest. Even without the colours, the spectacular explosions of light, the sight was dream-like, beautiful and foreign now that Alfred knew an alien thing like Sputnik had been hurled into the sky at speeds too incredible, at heights too large to belong to a dull place like Earth. A smile graced Alfred’s lips, sweeping along with it some other strange feeling from his chest, this lightness that left him wanting to float up into the sky.

He turned his head to Arthur, wanting to say this somehow, though he knew no words he could say. Instead, he found Arthur with his eyes shut, arms folded over his chest, the easing of soft breaths Alfred could almost hear. And then he wondered, why it was that the sight was never quite enough.


	7. After the Rain

Grubby hands shoved Yao’s shoulders back against the lockers, the bang against metal drowning out amongst the voices of students flooding the hallway.

‘What makes you so special, chink?’

Yao’s mouth went dry, pinned against the lockers with no escape. He darted his gaze around, dodging the burning glares of those surrounding him, looking over their shoulders and hoping that some passer-by might notice and speak out – only no one stopped.

‘I said,’ a hand grabbed his face and yanked it to face forward, closer to the spitting face of someone Yao had met before, but never knew the name of. ‘What makes you so special?’

Was it Brandon? Yao could recall hearing this name called out before, when Yao had only been putting his books away into his locker, only to be yanked and thrown back against the lockers like a rag doll – _Come on, Brandon. Give the kid a break_ – and for pity laughter to ring out around him.

‘He’s white as a sheet,’ one of them said, chortling through his words. Yao swallowed, clenching his hands into fists, not wanting them to tremble and give away anything more. Brandon’s hands pressed Yao harder against the lockers, bruising into skin and bones.

‘Well?’

‘I-I’m not –’ Yao stopped, aware of how shaky his voice was, how weak he must seem. ‘I’m not special.’

‘Oh, you’re not?’ Brandon said. ‘Because you sure try to talk like us, and act like us. Sit at our tables during lunch. I even heard you were having our class Sputnik over for dinner last week. Now, we all know he ain’t exactly one of _us_ , but he sure isn’t one of your kind, either.’

Yao clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze level. And yet, somehow, it still spoke of some sort of weakness. The group around him laughed, finding something funny about this, about Yao.

‘What?’ he spat out, heart hammering in his chest. The group made mocking hushes of fear, still grinning as Brandon yanked Yao up by the collar, forcing him to stand on his toes, making him feel smaller.

‘Oh, we figured something was going on, seeing how friendly you and the Ruskie were being.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You giving favours to the rest of the Lavender club, as well?’

Before Yao could even furrow his brows at the question, at the term ‘Lavender’ that was flung out like repulsive dust, Brandon scoffed.

‘No point in denying it. We’ve seen the five of you Nancy’s meeting up when nobody’s around.’

Yao huffed out, not sure if it was because he was offended by the suggestion, or because he was surprised by just how ridiculous the idea was. ‘It’s a debate club, you idiot-’

Brandon shoved Yao back against the lockers, hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. ‘What’s your problem, chink? What makes you think you can talk like that?’

Yao’s breath shook, foolish bravery bubbling up in his chest. ‘Maybe your sorry face has something to do with it.’

Brandon’s hand tightened on Yao’s collar, the group falling quiet. Yao pursed his lips, too late to take back the reckless words he’d spat out.

‘Say that again,’ Brandon said. When Yao only kept his mouth closed, Brandon lashed out. ‘What you said, say it again. Unless you want to spend the rest of lunch in your locker.’

‘I said, maybe your sorry face has something to do with –’

Brandon burst into laughter, his head shaking. ‘No… No, you gotta say it your way.’

‘My way?’ Yao stammered, his toes only just touching the ground, pressing his weight down as much as he could to keep from being yanked up again.

‘Say it like your squinty eyes and girly hair,’ Brandon said, twisting the collar up in his fist. ‘Come on. Give us that accent you’ve been trying to hide.’

Yao shook his head, feeling his face burn up, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of shame or anger. ‘I’m not –’

‘Say it.’

‘No,’ Yao hissed, despite the hazy edges, the blurriness clouding his eyes up. He wanted to kick and tear for this feeling, to make this unsteady hatred flowing in his blood into something else, into Brandon’s pummelled face, into his crazed cries of pain. But the hand on his collar had already let go, dropping him to the ground. He blinked away the blur from his eyes as the group surrounded him, picked him up by the shoulders, and began to shove him into his locker.

‘No,’ he said, voice trembling and shaky and _weak_. ‘Stop –’

‘I think he’s actually gonna fit,’ one of them said, giggling. Voices and chortles like those of drunken, brutish men resounded around him, kicking him back down when he managed the strength to stand up. Though he couldn’t say for sure among the shadows and the blurs, he caught sight of Yong Soo’s face, somewhere among the passer’s by, giving only a single cold glance. Yao called out, only for Yong Soo to disappear, and for Yao’s limbs to fall weak against the shoves.

His shoulders and knees were crushed up together – it was pathetic how used to this his body was, folding itself into the most compact way, knowing how to tuck his head down into his knees, to relax his shoulders so they didn’t press up against the cold metal of the locker. He buried his shaky breaths into the fabric of his trousers, hearing the click of the padlock and the footsteps fading away. He waited for the hallway to clear out, for everything to fall quiet. And when he was sure he was alone – completely and utterly alone – he permitted the trembling exhale from his lips, the slip of cowardice he didn’t want a single soul to hear.

 _It… could have been worse_ , he thought, trying not to think of how his limbs were bruised up against each other, or how his body was crushed and contorted to fit. Yes, it really could have been worse. They could have left him here overnight, or perhaps, locked him in with nothing but a girl’s dress on. Both had happened already, in Vienna where classmates had been just as cruel and the lockers not much bigger. But Yao had endured those cruelties just fine. That was how he intended to get through this. Endure – until the bell rung for class, until he was brave enough to call out to someone, until maybe, someone found him and the choice to call out for help was no longer his.

Footsteps shuffled down the hallway. Yao tensed, fingers grasping at the fabric of his trousers as he heard the cafeteria doors swing closed, and the footsteps coming closer. His stomach twisted up into a tight knot at the thought of being found like this, like a mouse caught in a trap. He chewed at the fray of his shirt sleeve as he watched a pair of worn out shoes step into view through the locker vent, not knowing if he could handle the humiliation of being found, not knowing if he could handle another minute of this crushing prison, either.

‘Um –’

The footsteps halted. Yao’s pulse started to pound in his ears, not really knowing who he’d called out to, if maybe staying here for a little while longer was the better option. The figure stepped closer to the locker, kneeling down to peer in. Yao caught sight of the ends of Ivan’s scarf and exhaled in relief.

‘What are you doing in there?’ Ivan asked, brows furrowed as he peeked in through the locker vent.

A desperate noise escaped Yao’s throat – a nervous laugh, maybe, or another sigh of relief – and he wished he could hide it. He shifted his arms, attempting to shrug against the metal confines of the locker, only to bring an ache to his neck and back.

‘Nothing,’ he stuttered, weakly laughing, trying to make all this seem silly, somehow. Ivan’s brows only pinched closer together. ‘Just – If you could open the locker?’

‘Do you know the combination?’

Yao nodded, telling Ivan the code with as steady of a voice he could, trying to keep his breaths level when he was convinced they were too loud and panicked sounding – though Ivan seemed not to notice. The padlock clicked open, warm light spilling in as the locker door creaked open. Yao mumbled his thanks, squeezing out of the locker, only for his tangled up limbs to get in the way. He muttered a curse, face burning up at the undignified way he must have looked, cramped up in this cage like an animal.

Ivan’s open palm reached out to him, without apologies or pitiful offers of help. It was a palm Yao could, without even touching it, feel the softness of, the gentle coolness he could recall from those many weeks ago. He longed to place his hand in Ivan’s, to have that delicate touch again, and yet...

_(Oh, we figured something was going on, seeing how friendly you and the Ruskie were being)_

Yao swallowed, lowering his eyes away from Ivan’s open palm, afraid of the weakness he would be inviting in by reaching for it.

‘I’m fine,’ Yao said, tactfully easing one shoulder out of the locker as if to prove it. He struggled to push the other shoulder out, yanking hard and falling out onto the hallway floor. Ivan caught him, hands on sore arms.

‘I said _I’m fine_ ,’ Yao hissed out, jerking away from the touch. He scrambled up to his feet, a tiny sting of guilt when he saw Ivan’s widened eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ Yao added, softer now.

‘It’s okay…’ Ivan said, his voice sounding paper thin, as if afraid of its own volume. ‘I was worried. You disappeared after class. What happened to you?’

Yao shrugged, pretending to find something interesting beyond the cafeteria doors at the end of the hallway. He felt the pause in Ivan’s voice wait for him to answer, to explain the locker and the fresh bruises on Yao’s arms. But Yao kept his lips closed, hoping the question would go away, or that Ivan would be kind enough to ignore it.

‘Do you… want to go eat your lunch?’ Ivan asked, tilting his head down to peer at Yao. Yao glanced at Ivan, blinking and letting his expression soften. He nodded, and watched the gentle smile flourish on Ivan’s lips.

‘Let’s go then,’ Ivan said.

A reluctant smile tugged at Yao’s lips, unable to restrain himself with the boyish way Ivan’s face had lit up, the optimism of it contagious somehow. He felt something fill up his chest, the sudden wish to have reached out for Ivan’s hand before – to have felt again the closeness that had teased him in that dusky afternoon, with the man-made moon in the sky and Ivan’s soft cheek almost pressing against his, lips barely brushing against his skin. But he knew, within their hesitating palms and glances, that these flimsy yearnings would only end up hurting.

* * *

His well-polished shoes stepped out onto the wet pavement, beneath the grey overcasting skies that reminded Arthur of home. He inhaled the dewy after-rain air, stomach fluttering at the sight of the weathered building up ahead. Cracked stone steps, yellowed walls of a tiny, local college – the kind where bored housewives went for a psychology degree, if they could escape the confines of the kitchen. No one would notice this building even if it had been struck by lightning. But today was different.

Today shuttle buses cruised around the overcrowded parking lot, students piling out of them in their black suits and ties, the smell of hair gel and aftershave lingering in the air. Arthur smoothed back his fringe and his vest, soaking up this feeling of nervous excitement, the jittery tremble that stretched out to the very tips of his fingers.

A hand slapped him hard on the back.

‘What is this, some kind of nerd-prom?’ Alfred cackled beside him, earning stares from nearby students. Arthur winced and shrugged off his hand.

‘Please, Alfred. Behave.’

‘It was a joke!’

‘It’s not a joke if it’s not funny.’

‘I thought it was funny,’ Alfred said. He whipped around towards the shuttle bus they had just arrived in. ‘ _He_ thought it was funny. Look at him, all smiley.’

Arthur raised a brow and turned to Yao, who was indeed smiling. Cheekily.

‘I’m terribly disappointed in you.’

‘I wasn’t smiling at what he said!’ Yao fumed, the smile disappearing as he hopped out of the bus.

‘Is that so?’

Yao hesitated, glancing around as if he might be able to escape explaining himself. ‘Ivan said something-’

‘Funnier than what I said?’ Alfred interrupted.

Yao furrowed his brows, parting his lips to speak.

‘What did he say?’ Alfred asked.

‘ _Aiyah_ … Nothing,’ Yao said, cheeks growing pink. ‘Just – an inside joke.’

‘Oh, so you guys have one of _those_ now, huh…’ Alfred muttered.

Yao’s expression hardened. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Gentlemen, be civil…’ Arthur said half-heartedly, wandering up to the bus door as Yao and Alfred passive-aggressively battled out. He peeked his head in. Ivan was still seated at the back, staring out the window and chewing his lips.

‘Something the matter, Ivan?’

Ivan blinked and looked to Arthur, startled. ‘No.’

‘Well – we’re all ready to go and sign ourselves in.’

‘Y-Yes, I knew that,’ Ivan said, a flustered smile on his lips. ‘I will be out in a moment.’

Cold feet. Arthur had seen it – felt it himself – many times before. He pursed his lips and nodded, politely excusing himself out of the bus. A prick of annoyance stabbed at him, stepping back onto the pavement with the likely regrettable wish that the frog had come along, too. A backup member would have been useful, especially with a teammate as flimsy in determination as Ivan. They needed to get this right. This was their first debate competition – and not without countless of afternoons of practice, of reading newspaper clippings until the sun had gone down, of Alfred’s endless complaints. A month of hard work had trudged by, and Arthur would not let Ivan’s shaky will dash it all away.

He tapped on Yao’s shoulder, the bickering voice of Alfred halting. Yao turned around to look at him, brow furrowed.

‘Yeah?’

Arthur pulled Yao to the side. ‘You’re in charge of Ivan.’

‘What? Why?’

Arthur cleared his throat and lowered his voice, watching Alfred peer at them in furious curiosity. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t do something silly like run away.’

Yao pulled away from Arthur, eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not his keeper.’

Arthur sighed and crossed his arms. Alfred was talking in the distance – childish mutterings Arthur had long since grown used to. ‘You and I both know that’s what we do.’

Yao pursed his lips, glancing back at the bus. He huffed out. ‘Okay. Fine. But he’s not going to do anything like that.’

‘Then keep him that way. If we don’t make it to the top three in this competition, we’ve got no chance at moving on to the state tournament. I need all four of us here.’

‘ _Aiyah_ , okay, okay!’ Yao stepped away, heading back towards the bus. ‘I’m going…’

‘Good.’

Yao rolled his eyes, half-stepping into the bus and peering in, his expression then melting into something softer. Arthur glanced away. He did not bother himself with speculations. As long as Yao and Ivan played their part in the team –

‘Whatcha guys conspiring about?’

Arthur flinched, finding Alfred right up in his face. He stepped back and raised a brow.

‘Nothing that concerns you children.’

Alfred laughed, ruffling Arthur’s hair up. ‘Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were middle-aged or something.’

Arthur swatted his hand away. ‘Don’t make a mess of my hair.’

‘Well, _excuse_ me-’

‘And yours as well. What the hell did you do to it, Alfred?’

‘Uh…’ Alfred glanced up, loose fringes handing over his forehead. A rebellious tuft of hair was stuck up towards the heavens. ‘Dunno. But I think it looks pretty swell.’

‘You look like a bloody madman. Fix it.’

Alfred snorted. ‘Yeah, like I’m doing _that_.’

‘It’s bad enough one of our team members has his hair in a ponytail. I don’t need another excuse for the judges to frivolously take points off for lack of presentation and decency.’

‘Well, maybe they oughtta give indecency a chance-’

‘Hush now and behave,’ Arthur said, yanking Alfred by the shoulder down to his eye level. He smoothed out the wild tufts of hair into place, ignoring Alfred’s chortles and flustered protests. By the time Arthur had ironed out every rebellious kink of hair, Alfred’s face had grown beetroot red.

‘Now you look like a gentleman.’

‘G-Good to know,’ Alfred chuckled, clearing his throat and pretending to find interest in some distant girl in a pencil-line skirt. Arthur rolled his eyes and made his way around to the driver’s side of the shuttle bus, peering into the window. Smoke billowed out into his face before he could speak.

‘Sorry, kid,’ the teacher coughed out, waving the smoke away. ‘Isn’t it time for you kids to get going?’

‘We’ll need you present for the signing in.’

The teacher grimaced.

‘You _are_ our designated chaperone.’

‘Like you kids are gonna run around and set fire to the place or somethin’…’ the teacher grumbled, stumbling out of the car and crushing his cigarette into the pavement. He sighed and tiredly clapped his hands together. ‘Alright, boys…. Let’s get going.’

* * *

Masses of students rushed out of the auditorium, leaving behind the block-lettered words that were scrawled on the chalkboard. Yao groaned.

‘I didn’t understand a single word of that.’

Arthur pushed past him, almost bolting down the auditorium steps.

‘Hey,’ Yao called out. Arthur halted, whipping around with a dazed look on his face. He blinked matter-of-factly.

‘Oh, it’s simple, really. It’s just about whether several states should enact legislation providing for a system of complete medical service available to all citizens at public expense.’

‘You’re just repeating the motion!’

‘Well.’ Arthur shifted the notepad in his hold. ‘It means what it means. And don’t forget – we’re all opposing the motion.’

‘Basically just talk about how bad free medical care is,’ Alfred said, climbing down over the seats of the auditorium instead of taking the stairs. ‘Talk about how much of a failure England is!’

‘The NHS works just fine, thank you,’ Arthur huffed out, hopping down the last few steps and yanking the auditorium door open. Alfred stumbled and fell over in the seats, yelling out protests for Arthur to wait. Yao sighed and turned to Ivan.

‘Let’s go.’

Ivan looked up and blinked, as if snapping out of a dream. He looked around the auditorium, brows furrowed.

‘Where did they go?’

‘To prepare.’

‘But aren’t we all on the same team?’

‘Well, yeah – but we’re split up in pairs. We’ll be debating in a different room, against different people.’

Ivan stayed quiet for a moment, paling a little in the face. ‘Oh.’

‘ _Aiyah_ , what’s wrong with you? Come on, get up. We’re wasting time.’

Ivan murmured a sheepish apology, following Yao out into the college courtyard. They sat at a dusty bench, overhearing the other teams in their furiously detailed preparations, voices bursting forth with numbers and facts that Yao could only hope to think were made up. Ivan remained quiet, jotting notes down without so much of a smile or the word-games he tended to play with Yao. The clock struck two before either of them could make a comment or excuse, and it was in taking their seats in the college classroom that Yao noticed Ivan’s hands were shaking.

The classroom still empty save for the two of them, Yao braved a glance and reached his hand out to brush against Ivan’s sleeve. ‘Hey—’

The door bust open with a bang. ‘Prepare to cry your eyes out losing, suckers!’

Ivan flinched, turning to look at the students intruding in. Yao followed his gaze, watching a sickly pale student barge his way through, a chair swivelling and clanging to the floor in the wake of his march.

‘Gilbert!’ Another student followed from behind – a lankier, dark-haired boy whose forehead was creased with a line of permanent frustration.

‘What, Roddy?’ Gilbert laughed, clambering over one of the desks to take his seat, in a clumsy and ridiculous way that reminded Yao of Alfred. ‘It’s not like the judge is here to witness my dangerously awesome battlefield spirit.’

‘This… isn’t a battlefield.’

‘It’s a battlefield of words!’ Gilbert said, with his arms struck out in a dramatic fashion. His vibrant eyes shifted over to Yao. A grin cracked onto pale lips. ‘You like this pose, _ja_?’

Yao darted his gaze away, pursing his lips as he felt the burning eyes still watching him. He feigned interest in watching the other two teams enter the classroom, the judge striding in with a clipboard. Gilbert and his friend began to murmur in German, foreign words that reminded Yao of Vienna, of the whispered conversations always held in his presence – of that horrible name they’d given him and the cruel tricks played on him.

The judge called up the first speaker, Roderich Edelstein, who walked up to the podium with the demeanour of someone born into poise and grace. He started off the debate in languid and clear tones, with crystal perfect phrases. Yet even with the leisurely pace, Yao found himself rushing to make notes of rebuttal. His jotting down was frantic, unable to steady itself though he wasn’t sure why. It was only when Yao took a moment to glance up that he noticed Gilbert was watching him.

Yao swallowed, mouth going dry as he turned his gaze away towards Ivan, seeking some kind of confirmation, or perhaps a unified front, that the ghoul-like student sitting across the room was nothing more than an annoyance. Ivan was staring down at his page, biting his lip and clasping his hands tightly together in his lap. Yao nudged at Ivan, gently, not liking the timid way in which Ivan’s body seemed to shrink into itself.

‘First speaker, opposition,’ the judge called out.

Yao nudged again, earning Ivan’s startled gaze.

‘First speaker, _opposition_.’

‘Isn’t that you?’ Ivan whispered.

Gilbert snickered across the room. Yao shot straight out of his seat, muttering apologies to the judge as he made his way up to the podium, blood pulsing faster with nerves and adrenaline. The judge gestured for him to begin, the wave of a hand setting Yao off into a flurry of breathless words and sharp breaks in thought, arguments that stuttered when Yao looked to Gilbert. The ash-white face was grinning at him – a strange, knowing curve of the lips that unsettled Yao, reminded him of Brandon’s arrogant smirk. The smile stayed even as Yao finished his speech, wondering why that darting gaze was flickering between him and Ivan.

‘Second speaker, proposition.’

Gilbert’s grin smouldered into arrogant composure, jumping out of his seat to stand behind the podium.

‘Before I begin my awesome speech,’ Gilbert said, jutting his arms out and rolling up his sleeves. His toothy grin slipped out of control, bearing itself once again. ‘I must first dish out some very awesome rebuttal. You see, the opposition has completely failed to recognize the benefits of free medical care, and furthermore –’ He slammed his fist onto the podium, causing even the judge to flinch. ‘They fail to recognize the importance of contribution!’

A silence settled over the classroom, time only punctuated by the chesty breaths of Gilbert, who looked as though he was about to charge into battle.

‘ _This_ team,’ Gilbert said as he pointed to Yao and Ivan. ‘Has not given one _single_ point of information! What does that say about their loyalty to their cause? The faith in their words! The will of their souls! They must not believe a single word they’ve said, or they would have completely destroyed by teammate’s speech with objections! Which they haven’t. _Ja_ – they haven’t even –‘

‘Point of information.’ Yao stumbled up from his seat, chair screeching away from him. He felt the pierce of the room’s attention, his blood pumping loudly in his ears as he looked to Gilbert and spoke. ‘You haven’t made any objections, either.’

Gilbert’s brows raised, the twitch of his grin giving away his satisfied surprise. He lowered his head and chuckled.

‘So the _reisfresser_ speaks.’

The tips of Yao’s fingers went cold. ‘What?’

Gilbert pursed his lips, a half-hearted attempt at containing his grin. ‘ _Reisfresser_ ,’ he said, the devious smile reaching up towards his eyes. ‘That’s what you are.’

People lied when they said words could never hurt you. Yao felt it – the old familiar stab of that name. His throat and chest suffered for it, tightening, winding up until he was sure his voice would come out as nothing more than a croak. He parted his lips anyway, finding words to hurl back, to hurt that ghoul in the same way.

‘That’s enough,’ the judge said before Yao could utter a word. ‘Keep the debate relevant to the motion, please.’

‘But –’

The judge looked to Yao, glaring. ‘Sit.’

Yao’s legs felt wobbly, trembling beneath his own weight. He slumped back into his seat as Gilbert resumed his speech, and pretended to jot something down, to feign focused thinking when all he was really doing was keeping his eyes on anywhere but the podium. He blinked away the sting in his eyes, warding off silly, childish tears. It had been just a word, just a name he didn’t like.

Ivan tugged at his sleeve, timid. Yao glanced over, the words ‘ _I’m fine_ ’ ready on his lips. And he was – really, this feeling had visited him so many times before, these little aches and stings that Yao had long since learned to bury and suffocate beneath pride. He would get over it just like every other hurt he’d felt. Only, somehow this touch, that tiny hold Ivan had on him; it wouldn’t let go, and it wouldn’t stop feeling so tender to Yao. He might crumble like this, and so the words stopped still on his tongue.

‘Second speaker, opposition.’

Ivan’s hand slipped away. His chair scraped against the floor as he pulled away from Yao, fumbling up to the podium with papers quivering in his hands. Ivan offered Yao a weak smile, in reassurance maybe, before drawing in a shaky breath to begin.

‘Um…’ Ivan swallowed, glancing down at his notes. ‘This house believes that free medical care at the expense of the public should not be enforced, because…’

The room was quiet enough to hear Ivan’s breath run out between points, to even hear the trembling of the papers in his hands. Ivan’s eyes were glued down to his notes, and Yao hoped for him to glance up, just once, for one flickering moment, so that Yao could encourage him somehow. But Ivan’s eyes remained fixed to the page, his voice coming to a staggering halt when Gilbert jumped out of his seat.

‘Point of information!’

Ivan tensed, daring a glance up at Gilbert. ‘Yes?’

‘So you’re saying the poor will just have to bear and suffer?’

‘N-No,’ Ivan said, gripping his notes tighter. ‘That’s not – what I meant. I…’

Gilbert stood there with the self-satisfied grin of a maniac, waiting. Ivan’s voice had tapered off to a whisper, only to give up with the clear of his throat and the awkward stumble back into his speech. Gilbert took his seat, darting a glance at Yao. It had been the same smile as before – that knowing gleam. The corner of Gilbert’s lip twitched up, like amusing words were about to burst out.

Yao shook his head, subtly. _Don’t_.

Gilbert’s face lit up in delight, stretching his arms back slowly, leisurely like he was about to pounce but would take his time anyway. Yao looked to the neighbouring teams, to Roderich who was sitting by Gilbert, only to find their faces bored and apathetic. Ivan’s words rushed into a flurry of panic, reaching the crux of an argument –

‘Point of information!’

Ivan went silent. Yao pursed his lips, looking to Ivan. _Decline it_ , Yao thought, wishing somehow Ivan would sense it. It wasn’t worth the extra time, the padding out of a speech that Yao could tell was already too short at two minutes in. _Decline it –_

‘Yes?’

‘We can barely hear you,’ Gilbert chuckled. ‘Is there something wrong with what you’re saying? Do you not have confidence in it?’

Ivan’s face paled, glancing around the room, for help maybe, as he fumbled for an answer. Yao looked to the judge, only to find him scribbling away, probably only hearing intonations and garbles of voices, not hearing the individual words within them. Yao stood up from his seat, though he knew he was breaking a rule by doing so.

‘Point of information.’

The other teams looked to Yao in surprise. Gilbert’s grin only burst into yet another chuckle.

‘Come on, knight in shining armour. Say something brave.’

Yao swallowed, feeling the cold sweat on his palms. ‘If…’ Yao cleared his throat, feeling his breaths and his pulse tell him he was about to say something stupid. ‘Then – you –‘

He looked to Ivan, at the hesitant pursing and parting of his lips, eyes meeting and breaking away. Yao could feel the whole room watching them, Gilbert mocking them.

_(Oh, we figured something was going on, seeing how friendly you and the Ruskie were being)_

Gilbert had seen right through it; he had known it within moments and it made Yao feel as though he was naked and exposed even though he had been sure these tiny uncertainties were well-hidden.

Ivan’s shaky voice broke the quietness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, though Yao didn’t know what for, or to who Ivan was apologizing. Before he could ask, Gilbert burst into a cackle. The judge slapped his hand down, apparently listening now.

‘Everyone but the speaker, take your seats before I deduct points – ’

The classroom door slammed. Ivan was gone, the podium empty and his notes scattering to the floor. The judge sighed.

‘Opposition 1 disqualified.’

Yao turned to the judge. ‘What?’

The judge waved him off, signalling him to sit back down. ‘We shall discuss this further after the debate. Proposition, speaker three. You’re up.’

Yao slumped back into his seat, throat closing up in what he wanted to call anger. But when he caught himself glancing out the windows, glancing at Gilbert’s smug face, folding his own hands together and hating the clammy coldness of his palms – he realized that it was more pathetic than anger, or frustration. The debate continued on, uneventfully, tediously, and without Yao saying another word.

* * *

‘That kid was totally stealing my points!’

Yao gave a non-committal hum, glancing towards the exit of the cafeteria in hopes that Ivan would walk through them at any minute. The moment the debate had finished, Yao had searched everywhere for him – even the far edges of the parking lot where students snuck out to smoke, though Yao was almost certain Ivan would hide himself away somewhere quieter than that. Bathroom stalls, abandoned classrooms… but they had all been empty.

Alfred leaned his head to the side, blocking Yao’s view as he chewed a big mouthful of his sandwich.

‘And he was so darn smug about it, too. Like, he knew he was doing it, you know?’

‘Yeah…’ Yao stepped back, looking over Alfred’s shoulder. Any minute now, Ivan should be back, from wherever he had gone. And without troubled lips or sore eyes, without that timid look Yao had seen on him during that debate when he had croaked out that shaky ‘sorry’.

‘Man, I’m glad you think so, too,’ Alfred continued on. ‘Cus Arthur was all like, it’s not what you come up with, it’s how you use it, to which I was like, that doesn’t sound right, and to which he was like, what are you bloody trying to say, and to which _I_ was like, _man_ , _I don’t even know_ –’

‘And the party has reassembled.’ Arthur lightly smacked Alfred on the back of the head. He looked to Yao, and then towards the seat next to him. ‘Sans Ivan, I suppose,’ Arthur sighed.

‘He just went to the bathroom,’ Yao said, straightening up in his seat. ‘He’s coming back.’

Arthur hummed in obvious disbelief. ‘Well, in any case, I’ve convinced the judges to forgive you and Ivan’s disqualification. _And_ … I’ve brought ourselves a plan B. Er -’ Arthur swivelled around, searching the cafeteria crowd. ‘Where did he bloody go-’

‘Right here,’ Francis chimed, popping out from behind Arthur.

Arthur stumbled away from Francis, eyes narrowed. ‘Now,’ Arthur said, clearing his throat and eyeing his watch. ‘Seeing as break is almost over…’ He pulled Francis forward towards Yao. ‘Gentlemen, from now on, this is Ivan.’

Francis made a tiny wave, averting his eyes down to the floor – a poor imitation of Ivan’s shyness.

Yao blinked, brows knitting together. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘We’ve already signed our team up with Ivan’s name, so if anyone asks, this frog-eater is _not_ Francis, alright? He’s Ivan, and he is absolutely _not_ an imposter.’

‘But Ivan’s-’

‘Not going to be debating,’ Arthur interrupted. His expression softened. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t mean this to be cruel to Ivan. He’ll probably be relieved anyway. He’s just… not ready for a tournament yet.’

‘He was doing just fine.’ Yao closed his hands into fists, hating the pitiful and condescending look on Arthur’s face.

‘I know, but please,’ Arthur said, his voice too, condescending. ‘Just do the next debate with Francis. I’m sure… Ivan will turn up soon or something.’

* * *

Ivan was nowhere to be found. The hours had gone by – the debates, of which Yao no longer even cared for, dragged on as Yao paid more attention to the figures walking by the windows than the words being spoken. And as the sky darkened, dimmed and cooled and smothered in smoky clouds and dusty raindrops, Yao couldn’t help but think that perhaps Ivan had done something as foolish as try to walk home from here.

Yao sighed as he watched the courtyard lights start to glow, charcoal clouds darkening overhead. From this cold bench, he could look into one of the classrooms where the judges had convened, their faces stiff even as they spoke. It wouldn’t be much longer until the final results will be announced, and then not much longer until Arthur called it a day and the bus drove away without a care for Ivan. Yao was sure, horribly enough, that their ‘chaperone’ wouldn’t wait around for a student if it meant missing the baseball match playing on television that night.

The black of his pants was now getting dotted with the drizzle of rain, the courtyard emptying out of anxious students. There was only one student who had not budged an inch, standing beneath the shelter of cracked pillars – Gilbert with his tiny gleaming smile and the puff of smoke easing out from between his lips. He gestured for Yao to come over.

Yao curled his lip in distaste, darting his gaze elsewhere.

Gilbert hissed, ‘Hey… _Reisfresser!_ Hey, come here.’

Yao snapped his gaze back to Gilbert, clenching his jaw. He stood up and strode over.

‘What makes you think you can call me that –’ Yao started, only to have smoke blown into his face. He coughed, the smoke stinging his eyes as Gilbert chuckled.

‘You have such a problem with that name, don’t you?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Yao took a step back, still coughing. Gilbert shrugged, his face like one of a child who was asked why it was fun to crush a line of ants – guiltless and amused.

‘My friends call me names,’ Gilbert said. ‘Albino, freak, bloodless…’ He sucked on the cigarette and puffed out a billow of smoke into the air. ‘It’s all just a joke, you know?’

Yao pulled his sleeve away from his mouth, eyeing the cruel line of Gilbert’s smile, the near-translucent pale skin and the violent stretch of winter sunburns creeping up from throat to jaw. He looked like a ghost – but not the kindly one he saw in Ivan, not with the tender loneliness Yao felt in Ivan’s voice. This ghost was bitter in a way Ivan wasn’t.

Yao watched Gilbert scratch away at the sunburns to leave skin raw, pitying him in that moment.

‘Where is your pet, anyway?’ Gilbert asked, flicking the cigarette ash onto the ground, watching it dirty a puddle of water. ‘I have not seen him since the first debate...’

Yao furrowed his brows – at that strangely tender word in Gilbert’s mocking voice. _Pet_. It made Yao’s chest stutter in a way he didn’t like, his composure falter to think of Ivan as _his_ in any way. ‘He’s…’ He paused, not wanting to give away Ivan’s disappearance, should it somehow prove to be a victory for Gilbert’s brutishness. ‘Around. Somewhere.’

A scoff of surprised amusement escaped Gilbert’s lips. ‘You don’t know where he is.’

Yao kept his gaze steady on Gilbert’s, the sudden possibility of something terrible entering his mind. He swallowed, thinking of the lockers, thinking of the humiliation and of Ivan’s kind hand, thinking of cruelty.

‘What did you do?’

Gilbert’s brows raised. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Then why are you smiling like that? You know something.’

‘I’m smiling because I was right, _reisfresser_.’ Gilbert chuckled, throwing the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it with his shoe. ‘You two really are going at it, aren’t you? What’s the word for it here? Queer –’

Yao shoved him back against the wall, a knot tightening up in his chest as he hissed out. ‘Don’t even say it. I’m sick of names. I’m sick of _reisfresser_ and chink and –’ Yao swallowed, not sure what he was doing, or what he was feeling, only that he wanted to hurt –  himself or someone else, it didn’t matter. ‘I’m sick of standing here and taking it.’

Gilbert laughed, and for a moment the sound made Yao’s fists tremble with rage – until he realized those fists were wrapped around Gilbert’s scar-ridden throat, and that laughter had been choked with pain.

Gilbert’s hands shoved Yao back, knocking him in the chest hard enough to make him gasp. He stumbled back against the pillar, breaths ragged and hands trembling as he crumbled to the ground.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you, _reisfresser_?’ Gilbert spat out, his voice raw and hoarse.

_(What’s your problem, chink?)_

Chink, Reisfresser – The name had changed but the meaning behind them never did. And in just that same way, so did the landscape change, so did the faces that taunted him, the names of the feelings Yao hid himself in. But they never changed this – the way people looked at him and the pathetic way his body always crumbled. These tiny hands that had so foolishly tried to choke another.

Yao stumbled up with shaky breaths, hating the sound of his own voice when he croaked out an apology.

‘Hey,’ Gilbert said, softer, almost at a whisper when Yao took a step further away. ‘Hey, _reis_ –’ Gilbert paused, perhaps realizing he had never even asked for Yao’s name. ‘Come back,’ Gilbert’s voice spoke again, further away this time, and Yao only had to blink away tears to realize he was running. To where, who knows. Why, he couldn’t care less. He let the now pouring rain soak him through to the bone, freezing up on his skin and biting.

He only stopped when his throat could no longer take the heavy breaths of ice cold air, when his legs were throbbing with the ache of a frantic pulse. He slumped onto a park bench, groaning when he realized he had run off into a park he didn’t know in the dark of the evening. He leant his head back, a glaring down at him like a dying sun.

Yao closed his eyes, wiping away remnants of tears and sniffling as the rain died away. Quiet. Dark. Not much different from a locker, only now Yao welcomed the lonely ache in his chest. It was a part of him, this _reisfresser,_ this ‘chink’ that so many relished in calling him. There was nothing he could do to change that. Why did he have to cry for it?

Leaves rustled in the breeze, branches groaning overhead with every surge of air. Droplets struck gentle notes as they fell between the metal rungs of ladders and off slides of a playground Yao could already imagine in its sorry state. And somewhere, the soft crunch of gravel. A cat, maybe…

The warmth of the lamppost light disappeared, Yao’s eyelids now cloaked in darkness. He snapped his eyes open, holding his breath.

Ivan was standing over him from behind the bench, his soft gaze trained on Yao. A boyish smile crept up onto Ivan’s lips.

‘Found you,’ Ivan chimed.

‘ _Aiyah –’_ Yao grabbed Ivan’s scarf and yanked him down. ‘Where were you? I was looking for you everywhere and you just show up saying something like that –’

‘Have you been crying?’ Ivan asked, the smile gone from his lips. His brows furrowed, hand reaching up and brushing against the stray tousles of hair that had fallen loose from Yao’s ponytail. ‘Your eyes are red…’

‘I’m fine,’ Yao snapped, his heart pounding at the touch. He pulled away and straightened up on the bench. ‘ _You’re_ the one who disappeared halfway through debate. Where were you?’

‘Here.’

Yao twisted around in his seat, staring blankly at Ivan. ‘For three hours.’

Ivan hesitated, eyes flickering to the ground. ‘I… did not think I could help with debate…’

Yao paused, thinking better of the annoyed reply he had ready. He sighed and turned away from Ivan. ‘We could have ditched debate together, you know.’

Ivan hummed, taking a seat next to Yao. ‘ _Nyet_ … You’d be missed.’

‘By who?’ Yao scoffed. ‘Our rotten opponent?’

Ivan chuckled, the sound of it softer than the rain. ‘I don’t know. People.’

Yao turned to look at Ivan, wanting to ask why he would think that a person like Yao _could_ be missed. And then Ivan made the slight tilt of the head, eyes falling gently on Yao like he was the easiest thing to look at. Fondness, maybe, and it struck Yao that he couldn’t understand why or how Ivan had ever wanted to stay close to him.

‘I’m sorry I left,’ Ivan said, darting his glance away. A sheepish smile crept up onto his lips. ‘I’m not good at this… Speaking in front of others like that scares me.’

‘Why did you join, then?’

Ivan parted his lips to answer, only to second-guess it. He shrugged. ‘I…’ He burst into nervous laughter, wringing his hands in his lap. ‘Silly reasons. You don’t want to hear them.’

‘Oh.’ Yao nodded, leaving the conversation at that – though vague autumn memories reminded him of the stalker he had once thought Ivan to be, the lingering glances and the charmingly sad way Ivan hung around outside the debate room in September. Ivan had tried hard to stay close, in a way no one had ever done for Yao before.

Ivan’s hand nudged at Yao. Yao blinked, finding Ivan staring at him, matter-of-factly, in a tender sort of way.

‘You were crying before.’

Yao frowned. ‘I wasn’t crying.’

‘It’s okay if you were crying. I should have said something before in that debate. I shouldn’t have run away. I should have stayed and said something, than let him call you that –’

‘I said I wasn’t crying,’ Yao snapped. Ivan fell quiet, only the sparse drips of rainwater filling in the silence. Yao drew his legs up onto the bench, hugging his soaked body into a ball, trying not to shiver. He’d already given away weakness to Ivan – the sound of that horrible name he’d been given in Vienna, the childish plush toys his room was full of, the pathetic way his tiny body could fit into the cage of a locker. Why did he have to give this up, too?

Ivan placed his hand softly atop Yao’s head. Yao glanced at Ivan, skin scorching up when Ivan’s hand smoothed over Yao’s hair. Ivan chuckled.

‘I feel bad,’ Ivan said, expression soft with timidity. ‘You always look so troubled when you’re quiet, and I never know what to say…’

Yao swallowed, feeling the gentle pressure of Ivan’s hand on his head again, petting him like he was some well-adored, pampered cat. Even so, the touch had sent something crumbling and breaking in his chest, falling apart so that he could not withhold the tears as they rolled down his cheeks – so that he could not hold back tiny sobs when Ivan crooned his name, his real name, in worry.

‘Yao…’

‘I’m sorry –’ Yao croaked out, desperately wiping away his tears, trying to take them back, somehow. Yao choked back each sob, scared to let them be, scared to feel the years and the names and the snarling faces finally break him. ‘I s-shouldn’t –’

‘Give me your hands.’

Yao sniffled, watching Ivan’s hands hover close, palms facing up. ‘What?’

‘Your hands. Put them on mine.’

Yao groaned, chest still hiccupping with restrained sobs. ‘N-Not now, Ivan. I don’t want to play.’

‘Please?’

‘We already played this morning. I won.’ Yao’s voice wobbled, remembering feeling so pleased with that tiny victory, with getting Ivan to stop calling him _Yaochka_. Now, he regretted it a little.

‘Only one game, I promise,’ Ivan said, shifting closer to Yao on the bench. He glanced up at Yao, the hint of a smile in his eyes.

Yao sighed shakily, nodding in surrender. He placed his hands on Ivan’s, the touch light enough to not even notice. Ivan clasped his hands tight around Yao’s, enveloping them in warmth. Yao glanced up in question, his cheeks still wet with tears and embarrassingly enough, his hands too trapped to wipe them away.

‘I’m…’ Ivan started, a timid smile gracing his lips. He lifted their entwined hands up slightly. ‘I’m not sure what this is, exactly. But I thought, maybe – people like to be hugged when they’re sad, don’t they? But I didn’t think you would be the kind of person who likes them, so –’

Yao’s voice broke out into laughter – or perhaps it was a cry, he couldn’t know for sure with the ache in his chest – and shook his head, blinking and feeling tears fall away like the drops of rain.

‘Why would you think that?’ Yao croaked out, half-laughing, half-crying, though his voice was hoarse enough to not be heard at all. Ivan shrugged, face growing pink. He untangled a hand from Yao’s, reaching up to clumsily wipe tears off his cheeks, a familiar boyish smile tugging at Ivan’s lips.

‘Yaochka can be cold sometimes.’

Yao’s heart lurched, his throat closing up at the sound of his name spoken in Ivan’s way. He choked back a laugh. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘What? Yaochka?’

‘That I’m cold.’

Ivan chuckled, hand brushing past Yao’s cheek and drawing up to the nape of his neck, the warmth of his palm making Yao feel like a candle melting in a flame’s heat. ‘But you are, a little bit… It’s okay, though. I can keep you warm.’

Yao scoffed at the cheesy sentiment, making the occasional embarrassing sniffle as the rain died down. He didn’t move away, though – almost protested when Ivan’s hand eventually pulled away from the nape of his neck, leaving a strange ache in Yao’s heart. He held onto Ivan’s other hand tightly, not wanting this one to get away from him, too.

And in his chest – this fluttering chest that would not stop trembling – he could feel warmth rising, despite the icy winds pushing against them, despite dread coiling in the pit of his stomach when he thought of cruel eyes preying on them.

He rested his head on Ivan’s shoulder, permitting himself that one trembling exhale – this one tiny show of weakness that he would only ever allow Ivan to hear.


	8. Drunk on a Dream

Ivan had found himself trapped in a coffin of sleep and half-awake dreams. His alarm had sounded off over an hour ago, and his sister had come in to yank open the curtains to let the morning light pour in much before that. But every time Ivan willed himself out of sleep, he was dragged back in by daydreams of Yao’s broken laughter and frozen hands, tightly wound up in Ivan’s. He dreamt of enveloping Yao up whole into his arms, fitting those two slender shoulders into his chest. And if his mind was careless enough, he dreamt of kissing every frozen knuckle on Yao’s trembling hand, every droplet of rain on pale skin.

How sweet and flustered Yao was yesterday, when the rain had died down and their hands were locked together. At night, the memory sprang dreams and phantom touches, half-asleep wonderings of what Yao might feel like if every part of him was as soft and delicate as his hands, of what Yao’s breaths might sound like under Ivan’s touch.

‘Vanechka,’ his sister Katya called out, knocking on the door. ‘At this rate, the sun will set before you eat breakfast. Get up.’

Ivan jolted out of the sheets, spewing out assurances that he was wide awake before the door could open. He heard his sister sigh and walk away, and with this he groaned and fell back into bed, squinting at the glaring sunlight piercing through his window. His face had grown fever warm, but it had not been because of the sun. These thoughts of Yao were getting to be too much, sometimes. Embarrassingly, terribly too much. What would his sisters think if they knew he was dreaming about another boy like this? Already, he could almost hear Katya’s laments about never having nephews or nieces, or Natalya’s accusation that Ivan had been somehow wrongfully persuaded into falling for Yao.

Young laughter rang outside Ivan’s window, from the shambled red house next door that never wavered in its nightly sounds of breaking glass and strangled moans. Ivan sat up, peering out of his window. Sometimes, he could hear one of the girls sobbing herself to sleep. But this time – this time he was sure he had heard her laugh. He rested his chin on the window sill, hoping to hear it again. That had been laughter before, no doubt, and so – Oldbrook couldn’t be all that bad. Even its rotten houses allowed something as sweet as laughter.

Katya knocked on the door. ‘Vanya! Your friend is here!’

Ivan’s heart felt as though it had almost leapt out of his chest, pounding as he jumped out of bed to get dressed. Who else but Yao – his only friend in Oldbrook - would be at the front door? He raced to the bathroom to tame the wild tufts of hair sticking up, feeling ridiculously nervous at the idea of seeing Yao. They had only held hands, and even then it wasn’t of any romantic kind – Ivan had only been trying to comfort. Still… there had been something all too intimate about seeing Yao like that, with tears and reddened eyes.

He rushed out of his room, only to knock Yao out of the way and into the wall.

‘ _Aiyah –_ ’ Yao stumbled. ‘What’s the rush for?’

Ivan faltered, his pulse still running as Yao stood there waiting for an answer. He didn’t look nearly as fragile or delicate as he did yesterday. His clothes were pressed and neat, his hair tied back without a strand out of place. The way Yao was looking at him, Ivan could almost think that he had imagined yesterday up.

‘N-No reason,’ Ivan blurted out, nervous laughter escaping him. ‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you and I thought you were at the door –’

‘It’s fine,’ Yao said. He hesitated before lifting up his hands, a scarf bundled up in them. ‘You, uh… forgot this yesterday.’

Ivan blinked, a smile tugging up at his lips. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘Yeah, well. You left it on the bus.’

‘ _Da_ , _da_ …’

Yao frowned. ‘What?’

Ivan took the scarf, chuckling as he wrapped it around his throat. ‘Nothing. Thank you for returning it to me.’

Yao hummed in approval, his expression settling. Ivan didn’t dare say it out loud, but Yao was not the careless type to watch Ivan leave the bus without his scarf. Yao noticed these things. And in perhaps some wishful thought, Ivan liked to think that Yao had held onto the scarf just so he could come see him today.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ Yao said, making a sharp turn for the front door. Ivan gasped and grabbed his arm.

‘Yao!’

‘What?’

‘You’re leaving just like that?’

Yao’s brows pinched, his gaze flickering down to where Ivan was holding him. ‘I gave back your scarf.’

‘Yao, we’re friends, don’t be so cold!’

‘I’m not cold!’ Yao fumed, pausing with a glance away from Ivan. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then stay for a bit,’ Ivan said. ‘My sister will be making lunch soon.’

Yao took in a deep breath, as if in annoyance, before sighing out his answer. ‘Okay. Fine.’

‘Don’t say it like it’s a chore,’ Ivan chuckled, pushing Yao into his room. ‘We can play Red Hands!’

Yao groaned, stumbling ahead. ‘We’ve played that game to death.’

‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’

Yao scoffed, seating himself on the edge of Ivan’s messy bed. ‘Yeah, the first few hundred times.’

Ivan faltered in his steps at the doorway, trying to read what that look on Yao’s face was. At first, Ivan would have thought annoyance, and it was this initial thought that felt like slight hurt in his chest, of maybe he wasn’t really all that to Yao. But upon waiting there a moment longer, he could see Yao’s frown falter, gaze breaking off and wandering around the room as is unsure where to look. He looked uncomfortable; and Ivan could only hope that maybe, in the tiniest glimmer of hope, Yao had been thinking of Ivan, too.

‘We can play a different game if you want,’ Ivan said.

Yao’s brows raised in curiosity, but before he could open his mouth to question him, Ivan had already decided.

‘Wait here!’ Ivan said, leaving the room to find the materials they would need for this game – or rather, this trick. He rummaged through the dining room cabinet, picking out two small glasses and a bottle of vodka, hurrying back to his room before Katyusha could notice what he was up to. He gently shut the door behind him.

Yao’s eyes darted down to the bottle in his hands. ‘It’s not even noon yet.’

‘Who said we’d be drinking it?’ Ivan chuckled, setting the bottle and the glasses on his desk. ‘Come here, I’ll show you a party trick my sister did once at New Years. It’ll be fun!’

Yao considered the two glasses on the desk as he approached. ‘What’s the trick?’

Ivan instructed Yao on what to do: to stand with his back against the wall, to open his arms and press them back against the wall with each glass held up at the elbows. That he needed to stay completely still, or the vodka poured into the one glass would not be able to magically transfer to the other. And finally, that Yao needed to close his eyes.

It was the last step that Yao would not cooperate on.

‘Just what kind of trick is this?’ Yao’s eyes were narrowed, sceptically measuring up Ivan’s face as if he might give something away.

‘You say it like I’m going to do something bad.’

‘Yeah, well – sometimes my idea of bad is your idea of good.’

‘That’s not true! Yaochka, don’t be this way! My sister did this trick with me and Katya three years ago. Do you really think she would do something terrible to us?’

Yao scoffed. ‘I mean…’

‘Eyes closed!’

Yao took a moment of pause – of staring Ivan down – before sighing and closing his eyes. Ivan’s chest stirred at the sight, as though the air in his lungs was too much to bear at the thought of Yao closing his eyes like that for Ivan, so openly and willingly.

Ivan set the vodka bottle down, finally coming around to that question that had been lingering since he had first asked Yao to close his eyes: how exactly _did_ his sister get the vodka from one glass into the other? He was sure he had listened carefully when she explained. After all, he had traded her his Christmas share of chocolates for that trick. So how was it that there was something not quite right about the position he’d set Yao up in?

He was starting to get the feeling that he’d ruined the trick somehow. Stepping closer to Yao, he scrutinised the image and tried in slight panic to figure out the next step. He was such a fool. He’d broken the trick, he was sure. Because, for one, he was getting increasingly certain that the one who was meant to be closing his eyes was not Yao, but Ivan instead…

‘Is the vodka moving yet?’

Ivan blinked, fumbling for an answer. ‘N-No, not yet. It’s uh… still…’ His voice thinned out, unsure of itself. ‘It takes a little time.’

Yao hummed in mock agreement. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘See, I don’t think you do.’

Ivan burst out into laughter – that awful, nervous kind he could never control. He pursed his lips, biting them because it should not be this easy for someone to make him feel nervous. It should not be as effortless as closing your eyes and toying with words, or saying Ivan’s name in that lazy, familiar way, or resting your head on his shoulder as though it was the safest place to be. But Yao had done all of those things and more, and Ivan wanted to give something back.

He swallowed, aware of how close he was standing to Yao, how endearingly helpless Yao looked this way. Yao opened his eyes by a peek, deep charcoal eyes that Ivan could now see rings of honey in.

Feeling caught, Ivan smiled breathily, watching the delicate raise of Yao’s brow.

‘What?’ Yao asked.

‘Yaochka is beautiful.’

Yao’s eyes widened, in a strange horror Ivan did not expect. ‘ _Aiyah_! Take that back!’

‘But why?’

‘Girls are beautiful. Flowers are beautiful. Expensive vases are beautiful. Do I look like any one of those?’

Ivan chuckled, finding the reddening tinge on Yao’s face sweet and amusing. ‘No, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be –’

‘I’m not a girl!’

‘I never said you were.’

‘Then take it back,’ Yao snapped, his honeyed eyes now cold, his voice shielded. ‘Take back what you said about me before.’

Ivan furrowed his brows, not understanding why. How could he lie? To him, Yao was beautiful: warm and sweet and kind despite all his efforts to prove otherwise. This look that Yao was giving him now, that stoic expression Ivan had seen many times before – in class, in the hallways, in the tiny locker those cruel classmates had shoved him in – it was starting to look more and more like a shield, a stifling mask. Perhaps impulsively, Ivan wanted to take it away.

He reached out and cupped Yao’s cheek with his palm, shaping his hand to the softness of Yao’s jawline.

‘ _Nyet_ ,’ Ivan said softly, feeling brave enough to lean in. ‘I stand by what I said.’

Yao’s gaze wavered, nervousness betrayed by the gentle movement of his Adam’s apple. His dark eyes were lingering on him, dipping down towards Ivan’s lips in a way that sent Ivan’s heart pounding in his chest. Yao opened his mouth to speak, only to hesitate when Ivan drew closer. Their noses bumped together, and Ivan could hear the scrape of the glasses against the wall, trembling beneath Yao’s arms. Half scared to death, Ivan braced himself and made the gentle lean forward, squeezing his eyes shut only to feel Yao flinch away from him –

The vodka glasses fell and broke with an ear-piercing shatter.

* * *

Arthur picked up his pace, tightening his grip on his books as he squeezed through the crowded hallway. Booming voices and piercing giggles overpowered, closing in on him. This personalized hell of Arthur’s had not changed in the slightest since two years ago, when he had been scrawnier, perhaps less outspoken, and easily picked on during Oldbrook Academy’s three o’ clock chaos. Only now he knew how to weave through, to keep a stone cold face so no one could find weakness in it.

A shoe darted out in front of him, tripping him over before he could react. His books flung out of his arms as he grabbed onto a nearby fountain for support, muttering profanities under his breath that Alfred would gape at. He bent down to pick up his books, only to stand back up and find himself feeling as though he had been here before, in this exact moment.

‘You okay there, man?’ Alfred laughed, pulling away from the fountain with water dripping down his chin. He coughed, almost choking on his laughter like the stupid way he had done the first time they had bumped into each other – at this same rusty water fountain, with that same dribbly smile on Alfred’s face. At the time Arthur had been a clueless ninth grader, one that didn’t quite realize that taking the helping hand of this boy would keep him stuck to his side for the next two years.

Arthur huffed out at the memory – irritated, relieved, the tiniest inkling of a feeling he might call nostalgia. ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

Alfred smiled and wiped away at his mouth with his sleeve. ‘You know for once, we’re actually waiting for you. It’s a first in all of debate club history.’

‘Good. I was just on my way.’

‘ _Good_ ,’ Alfred mocked back. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘Once you’ve sucked the life out of that fountain?’ Arthur brushed past Alfred, unable to help the curve growing on his own lips when Alfred spluttered out an incoherent retort.

He headed down the humanities corridor, no longer having to go to that awfully dusty music room for debate anymore – thanks to his persuasion of the student council to offer up their unused club room (the damned club was now no more than clamouring, popularity obsessed knobheads who spent more time at the soda fountain than they ever did in class). But Arthur couldn’t complain; they had a proper classroom now, and as if things couldn’t look any brighter, they had won fourth place in the tournament – fourth place was a lot to ask for with a debate team like his.

He approached the classroom door, which had been left slightly ajar, and peeked his head in – his books nearly slipping out of his hands at the sight.

‘Bloody hell…’

The desks were overturned. Books thrown off shelves. The chalkboard was scrawled over in red, furiously painted letters: _NANCY BOYS CLUB_. Arthur pushed the door further open, noticing that the walls too, had been written over in paint, only for a bucket of purple paint to drop onto his head.

Arthur coughed and spluttered, hiding away in the corner of the room at the sudden thought of passers-by mocking him. He smeared the paint off his face – lavender, he glumly noted – before hearing Alfred’s voice from the doorway.

‘Whoa… What the heck happened here?’

‘It seems our club isn’t particularly welcome at Oldbrook,’ Arthur said as he set his books down on the floor, flicking goops of paint out of his hair. Alfred shut the door behind him, stepping slowly into the room as he read out the words on the chalkboard and walls.

‘Nancy boys club... Lavender lads… Commie… queers…?’ Alfred stopped still, shaking his head in incredulous disbelief as he turned to Arthur. ‘Commie queers?’

‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t write it.’

‘Just because we have _one_ commie queer –’

‘Now hold on, Alfred –’

‘ – doesn’t mean they should take it out on _us_.’ Alfred huffed out, standing up straighter. He paced around the room, glanced up at the painted words on the chalkboard and walls, smacking his lips each time he thought to say something, only to purse his lips yet again in brooding silence as he stared at the chalkboard with furrowed brows. ‘You know what, Arthur?’

Arthur winced. He had a vague idea of what was to come. ‘What?’

‘I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I’m gonna find the culprit and make him ‘fess up. I’ll make him tell the school what a real dirty piece of work he is, and then he’s gonna clean this mess.’

‘You will do no such thing.’

‘What?’ Alfred frowned. ‘What do you mean, I’ll do no such thing? I’m gonna catch our culprit!’

‘You’re going to make a fuss. It’s petty vandalism, nothing more, and even if we wanted to do something about it, we’d only make bigger fools out of ourselves.’

‘But –’

‘It’s going to be a pain to clean this up, but there’s nothing else we can do here without picking a fight. Keep quiet about this, Alfred. Please.’

Alfred bit his lip, crossing his arms and looking around the room. ‘I don’t know, man…’

‘I know it’s not right. And I know your… pride is important, but – ‘

‘It’s not about pride, man! It’s about the principles!’

‘Yes, well – ’

‘We are _not_ commie queers!’

‘I suppose not, Alfred, but the point here is – ’

‘Except for Ivan. He’s a commie for sure. I don’t know about _queer_ exactly, but I got a hunch or two about that – ’

‘Alfred, will you be quiet for a just moment?’ Arthur snapped. Alfred shut his mouth. Arthur continued on. ‘We will sort this matter out, on our own carefully thought out terms, alright? I don’t know where Ivan and Yao are at the moment…’

‘They both have history last period,’ Alfred said, sighing out and glancing at his watch. ‘So like, they’re probably getting busy in the janitor’s closet about now.’

Arthur would have rubbed his face in frustration had everything not been soaked in paint. ‘Alright. We’ll gather the whole team up tomorrow then, or something… I don’t know, just get me something to wipe my face with, will you?’

Alfred whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Keep it. I’ve never had to use it.’

‘I’ll wash it and return it.’

Alfred shook his head dismissively, troubled gaze wandering off to the chalkboard. Arthur took the handkerchief and wiped the paint off his face, purple drying on his fingertips. How he would explain this to his father, he wasn’t exactly sure. But there were bigger problems to worry about now. For one, cleaning this room up to the way it was before. And as for the other problem, of finding a way to keep the club from the claws of Oldbrook’s _finest_ and _most bored_ minds, Arthur could not even begin to think of what might be done to fix that.

* * *

Pat Boone’s smooth voice filled up the soda shop with the sound of a syrupy love song, drowning the awkward silence at the table. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, the red laminated letters of _‘Garland’s Soda Shoppe_ ’ casting their pink shade on Yao’s neatly folded hands in his lap.

He kept his eyes preoccupied on the marbled texture of the table, though all he was really, truly seeing was the faint outline of Ivan’s figure sitting next to him. He did not dare turn his head. His gut tightened at the thought of his eyes meeting Ivan’s, of locking their gaze in the same heart-stopping way they had only a few days ago.

_(Yaochka is beautiful.)_

Even now Ivan’s words were sending Yao’s face tinging with warmth, burning humiliation and flattery all at once. _Beautiful_ was for delicate roses, with breakable stems and bruisable petals. Yao didn’t want it. He was physically weak and small enough as he was, has always been a target and always been one for larger boys to pick on – and Ivan had the nerve to call him something as frustratingly delicate as _beautiful_.

Alfred, seated across from them, slurped his drink loudly through a straw, the ice rattling in its glass. ‘So…’ Alfred smacked his lips, picking up a spoon and digging into a bowl of ice cream. ‘How are things going for you guys? Good?’

‘We’re good,’ Ivan said, overlapping Yao’s clipped _‘I’m fine’_.

The spoon dripped as Alfred lifted it up to his mouth, darting a glance between Yao and Ivan.

‘Uh huh.’

Yao squeezed his hands together in their clasp, palms feeling clammy. He couldn’t tell if it was from the need to punch that know-it-all look off Alfred’s face, or from the strange panic he was feeling simply sitting here next to Ivan, reliving the moment when their lips had been alarmingly close.

Yao had been the one to flinch. _He_ had been the one to move away, when Ivan had leaned in so close and touched him so familiarly, when Ivan had so recklessly pushed that boundary. Ivan broke the rule, not Yao. And if Ivan got hurt because of it, then –

Alfred’s spoon clinked back into the bowl, his sigh drawing out. ‘Listen. Yao,’ he said, waiting for Yao to glance up. ‘I like you. Okay? I think you’re a good kid. I _want_ to be on your side.’

Yao raised a brow, his words terse. ‘About what?’

‘But I can’t do that if you don’t come clean. I gotta know.’

‘About _what_?’

Alfred pursed his lips, looking behind his back as he reached into his jacket. He slid a folded newspaper across the table, front cover half exposed to show the smudged headline: _VANDALISERS TARGET DEBATE ‘NANCY BOYS’ CLUB – IS THERE TRUTH TO THE SLANDER?_ Yao’s stomach sank with heavy dread.

‘You guys heard about our clubroom, right? Heck, you both must’ve seen it –’

‘Who’s seen this newspaper?’ Yao asked, grabbing the newspaper and unfolding it to reveal the photo of the painted insults – words that Brandon and his group had thrown at him more times than he could count, and yet, now they felt more dangerous than before. ‘How long has it been out?

‘Since this morning. School newspaper latched onto the story real fast.’ Alfred snatched the newspaper back, stuffing it back into his jacket. He snorted. ‘But I don’t think you guys needed a newspaper to tell you what our school thinks of us. You know. Considering…’

‘Considering what?’ Ivan asked.

Alfred scoffed. ‘Don’t you try to fool me with your innocent act, man. You’ve been subverting Yao to your commie ways this whole time.’

Yao choked on his drink. ‘What?’

‘It’s okay, Yao,’ Alfred said, glancing earnestly in his direction. ‘I know it’s difficult for you to admit. But I’ll uncover the truth for you. I’ll set you free –’

‘No one has been ‘subverting’ me into anything,’ Yao snapped, heat rising at the collar of his shirt. He glanced to Ivan, betrayed by his own nervous swallow. Why had he flinched away, exactly? He had been dreaming of it, hadn’t he? Of caresses and touches and what the warmth of Ivan’s hold might feel like if they were to entwine together like inseparable vines, what his smile might feel like when it was pressed against his cheek mid-kiss. He’d secretly longed for it and yet when he was finally given the chance all he could think was that it just felt – _terrifying_.

‘Oh please,’ Alfred said, layering on the sarcasm thickly. ‘What do you want to call it then, if it’s not subversion? Because whatever it is, I know what the rest of the school sees it as, and it’s taking the rest of us down with you –’

‘What is going on here…?’ Arthur returned to the table with sceptical eyes, a tray of ice cream bowls in hand. Francis followed with yet another tray. Alfred slumped back into his seat, eyes shining with bright-eyed innocence as Arthur took his seat and set another ice cream serving to him.

‘Not much.’ Alfred shoved the melted bowl of ice cream aside to make space. ‘Just catching up. You know. All that small talk.’

Arthur looked to Yao and Ivan in question. Yao pre-occupied himself with a bowl of ice cream Francis had pushed in front of him, glad for the distraction. He didn’t glance up to see if Ivan was doing the same, or if he was making some naïve expression of his as per usual. Arthur sighed.

‘Right. So where were we when Alfred made a fuss about another ice cream flavour… Ah yes – Debate meetings will continue as normal every Monday afternoon. We might only be fourth place in the local competition, but that doesn’t mean we can’t compete in state semi-finals if one of the top three teams drops out...’

Arthur talked on and on about debate – formats, topics, team roles, dress code. Spoons clinked against the bowls. No one else said anything – specifically, _Alfred_ wasn’t saying anything – and Arthur’s brows furrowed slightly as he paused and turned to Alfred.

‘You’re awfully quiet.’

‘Just enjoying my ice cream.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing!’

‘My mind’s not changing about the investigation.’

‘I _know_.’ Alfred sighed loudly. ‘And anyway, I got cooler stuff to do in my free time. Like, you know, hosting a party this Friday…?

The entire table turned their gazes toward Alfred. Alfred chuckled.

‘Yeah. That’s right. Party at my place. Parents are off to some law symposium, so I got the whole house to myself, and you’re all invited.’ He nudged at Arthur. ‘How’s that sound, Artie? A night of rock n’ roll!’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll pass.’

‘Oh, come on! Artie!’

‘Keep calling me that and I might just pass on every party of yours.’

Yao absent-mindedly scraped the ice cream bowel with his spoon, watching the others bicker across the table. He heard the quiet rustle of fabric – Ivan’s heavy jacket shifting as he leaned over. Yao tensed, wondering just how long he could keep this up this act of not caring or remembering, if he could even manage avoiding Ivan’s gaze for yet another day.

‘Are you going to it?’ Ivan asked, the sound of a light smile in his voice. Yao shrugged.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Oh.’

Guilt. Yao could feel it growing from the pit of his stomach, that nagging feeling that had been following him around all week, that he’d ruined it all somehow. Ruined it by flinching away, ruined it by holding onto Ivan’s scarf after the debate tournament just so he could return it the next day, ruined it just by yearning for something more with Ivan, when in the end he was too afraid to even accept it.

He excused himself from the table, and walked out into the biting cold of that sunny afternoon.

* * *

Alfred whistled as he strolled up to the door and opened it, welcoming his classmates into his home with a plastic smile. _Help yourselves, leaves your coats, grab a glass of punch_ – to them, this was nothing more than just a run-of-the-mill house party. But oh, this was far from any ordinary party. This was an investigation. _His_ investigation.

Any one of these pretenders could have done it, any one of the twenty-odd people he had invited. He eyed Mark as he hung his jacket on the coat rack. Student council president Mark, with his gelled hair outshining his black polished shoes, and cologne strong enough sting your eyes from a distance. The student council had practically handed the club room to Arthur. It wasn’t much of a stretch of imagination to think the gift was spoiled, like rotten eggs in a prettied up basket.

_But what about intent?_ Alfred furrowed his brows, watching Mark for signs of guilt. _Why?_

‘How’s it going, Alfred?’ Mark nodded, smoothing back his hair with both palms as he eyed the girls heading for the living room.

‘Oh, great. Just great.’ Alfred cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you, uh, help yourself to some punch?’

Mark gave a threadbare smile. ‘Will do.’

The doorbell trilled. Alfred grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, a slight twist of his stomach at the possibility of Arthur standing on the other side. He had mentioned the rock n’ roll to him, didn’t he? It was bound to keep Arthur away – surely, hopefully.

To his relief, it was only Ivan standing on his front porch. Looking strangely sullen, Alfred noticed.

‘Oh, hey. I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Is Yao here?’

Alfred crossed his arms, unable to help a satisfied smirk. ‘So he’s finally escaped the red clutches of your communist ways, huh?’

Ivan frowned. ‘Your words never make sense.’

‘Only to your kind.’

Ivan sighed, his eyes flickering over Alfred’s shoulder. ‘Is he here?’

‘Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Wanna find out for sure?’

Ivan looked to Alfred with a deadpan gaze, a brow lifting in impatience.

‘Okay, serious, I like that. Now listen,’ Alfred said, checking over his shoulder. ‘I need you to infiltrate the crowd. Dance with them, talk to them, I don’t care. Just get me _information_. What they think of our club, what they do afterschool, who they hang out with, who they like, who they dislike, who they got a grudge against, what they wanna do in life, motivations, _dreams,_ you know? _Feelings_ – ’

Ivan lifted a hand up, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Understood. Let me through.’

‘Sure, but also make sure you get their names and addresses down, too, you know? Maybe I should give you a notepad or something. You got good memory?’ A loud crash came from the living room. Alfred winced. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He hurried into the living room, finding a potted plant shattered beneath the fireplace. He sighed and looked around the room for guilty faces, but everyone was looking away or at the floor at their own dancing feet. He swept the potted plant aside, noticing a bottle of whisky that hadn’t been there before. He whipped around, glancing at the liquor cabinet over in the dark dining room. Locked. So somebody thought it was funny to bring their own stash, huh?

He made his way back to the front door, stopping still in his tracks when he saw the door wide open, and from it a crowd squeezing through. He did not recognize a single face in that crowd. Apparently, someone had been generous in extending Alfred’s invitation.

‘Um, guys –’

They walked right past him, tall lumbering guys in leather jackets and girls in bright red lipstick, barking with loud laughter. And people were _still_ coming in, following one after the other. Alfred jumped to the front door, shutting it at the first opportunity. He glanced uneasily at the living room, now full of strangers he had not invited.  And then he muttered a curse he’d never before had reason to use.

‘ _Shit_.’

* * *

‘Jin…’ Yong Soo drawled out, sighing as he peeked over the mahogany dining table. ‘Hurry up, I’m thirsty as hell –’

Jin hushed him crouched over by the cabinet with his face right up at the lock as he picked at it with a hair pin, smoothly taken from an unsuspecting girl. ‘I’ll need some quiet. I’m almost there.’

‘Good,’ Yong Soo huffed out. He rested his cheek on the cool table surface, watching the girls’ skirts swirl as they danced, sunshine-perfect smiles on their lips. It was a good tune, one Yong Soo would have liked to dance to, in that crowd he used to find belonging in. But then middle-school happened and things changed – who knows, maybe they had grown tired of Yong Soo. Maybe he just wasn’t funny or smart enough. Maybe all it took was one joke from the right person about the shape of his eyes, and the rest of his classmates would follow.

A soft click. ‘It’s open,’ Jin said, sitting back. ‘Take your pick, Yong Soo. But just one bottle, alright? And we’re putting it back afterwards.’

‘Oh, sure thing.’ He whipped around to the open cabinet, fumbling his hand among the cool bottles and grabbing the largest one. ‘Let’s take it outside.’

Jin raised a brow, pulling that all-too-familiar fatherly look of his. ‘If we take it outside, you’re never putting back.’

‘Not true! Not true, I keep my word, you know that.’

Jin said nothing, standing up to open another cabinet and pull out two glasses. He sat back down, criss-crossed, and handed one glass to Yong Soo. ‘I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind when you told me you wanted to crash this party…’

Yong Soo rolled his eyes and grabbed the glass. As if he came here for anything other than free booze. Silly Jin. ‘Yeah?’

‘But it’s best we play it safe. One glass –’

‘Two.’

‘And then we leave.’

‘Sounds great to me.’ Yong Soo opened the bottle and poured it into Jin’s glass, watching the deep colour fill in like a shadow. He poured himself a glass and raised it. ‘To our lives as glorious outcasts!’

Jin opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to amend the statement, only to nod and clink their glasses together. Yong Soo downed the drink, almost choking on the toxic fragrance that filled up his lungs. What even was that? Whisky? Or brandy? Over-aged and overpriced wine? He couldn’t really tell, but as long as it gave him that warm feeling – ah, there it was, tingling, creeping warmth up his chest and throat – as long as it did that, he couldn’t care less.

He rose up on his knees, using the table to pull himself up as the liquor slowly wrapped up his veins in cosy, gentle warmth. The song had changed into something slower, the jutting dance of that intimidating crowd now melting into swaying, timid steps. He grabbed the bottle from Jin and poured himself another glass, mulling over the taste this time as he sipped and watched a lone girl busy herself near the punch bowl, sporting a short blonde ponytail and a modest sweater. Yong Soo had a chance with her, maybe – a girl sweet-looking like that wouldn’t turn down a conversation.

He stood up, setting his glass down on the dining table with a loud clink. Jin shifted in his seat.

‘What are you doing –’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Yong Soo waved his hand dismissively, making his way out of the dark dining room and into the brightness of the living room. His eyes met the girl’s – clear and blue, like rain droplets – and readied to introduce himself. Only someone else got there before him.

‘Susy, how you doing?’

She turned around, facing a boy taller and broader-shouldered than Yong Soo, bearing a toothpaste smile that could have come right out of a poster. He looked like the epitome of the ideal American boy – Alfred, the poster child of Oldbrook.

That is, if he kept his mouth shut.

The girl pulled a forced smile and nodded, her eyes darting away for escape. ‘Good, Alfred. I’m good.’

‘Your friend Becky, she’s on the student council committee, isn’t she?’

‘It’s Betty. And she’s with Mark.’

‘Oh, no that wasn’t what I meant – Arthur and I are running a club, you see, we get to talk about all sorts of great stuff. You know. Government stuff, space, sometimes even UFOs. You know about those right –’

‘I should probably go.’

Alfred blinked. ‘Uh, okay. Sure…’

The girl left without much more of a word or glance, leaving Alfred standing there with a sort of dumb look on his face. Yong Soo chuckled, unable to help himself. Even poster boy couldn’t hold a two-minute conversation with a polite girl like Susy.

‘What are you looking at, Chuckles?’

Yong Soo cleared his throat and pretended to wander off, only to find Alfred standing in front of him.

‘I’m talking to you.’

Yong Soo took a step back, frowning. ‘Yeah, and?’

‘I don’t think you were invited.’

He scoffed. ‘Sure I was. We’re classmates.’

Alfred blinked in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. We take Gym together now.’

‘Now?’

Yong Soo pursed his lips. The guy didn’t really remember, did he? _Sixth_ _grade_ , Yong Soo wanted to say, _you and your stupid science project, your search for aliens in the dirt_. Yong Soo could still recall the sweltering heat of that June day, picking up dirt with his sweaty palms and dumping it into a bucket so they could ‘analyse’ it later. It was a stupid project that the teacher hadn’t even approved of, but they – Alfred – went ahead and made the poster for it and everything.

Alfred’s _scientific_ conclusion: The existence of microscopic aliens was ‘unconfirmed’.

Yong Soo’s conclusion:  No budding friendship was worth scrubbing dirt from your fingernails. Or the humiliation of presenting such a stupid idea to his class.

All that, and yet here Alfred was, six years later, staring at him with the blankest look. Yong Soo sighed.

‘Forget it. I’m in your gym class. That’s all you need to know.’

‘Oh.’ Alfred furrowed his brows and crossed his arms, mulling over idea as he eyed Yong Soo. ‘So tell me, uh…’

‘Yong Soo.’

Alfred nodded, pointing a finger gun at him. ‘Yong Soo, I wanna know what _you_ know… about the incident at the debate club room.’

Yong Soo was unable to withhold a smirk. ‘You mean the Lavender Club –’

‘Whoa there, buddy,’ Alfred gestured his hands like he was calming a horse, glancing around the crowded room. ‘Don’t announce it.’

‘You asked.’

Alfred’s gaze levelled with Yong Soo’s, his face suddenly not looking so goofy anymore. He took a step closer and guided Yong Soo towards the dark dining room, their faces now in the shadows.

‘You know something about it?’ Alfred asked, his voice low. ‘You got something to do with it?’

‘What?’ Yong Soo pulled away, shrugged Alfred’s hand off of him. ‘No. Everyone knows about it. Even the school paper covered it.’

‘So you got nothing? Nothing you can tell me? Someone to rat out? Did you hear something, a rumour? Do you even have a hunch, a gut feeling, anything –’

‘I’ve got nothing.’

Alfred sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Alright. Guess I shouldn’t have expected much, anyway. It’s not like you rub shoulders with anyone on the student council or anything.’

Yong Soo frowned. Something about that hit too hard, a little too deeply. _Shouldn’t have expected much_? Is that what he was? Disappointment? A waste of time? Yong Soo would have turned the other cheek if it had been from anyone else, but from _Alfred_ – from this idiot who had once took his friendliness for granted, who made him crawl around in the dirt and then forgot about it all, who now sat at that table with those blonde-headed know-it-all’s, who now joked and laughed with Yao – Yong Soo wasn’t going to take it.

_You still looking for aliens in the mud, Jones?_

That’s what he was going to say. Yong Soo walked right back up to oblivious Alfred, clenching his hands into fists as he prepared to spit that question out, put him in his place.

‘Hey –’

Alfred turned around, curious. Yong Soo faltered, stumbled with the words he had prepared.

‘What is it? You remember something?’

Yong Soo swallowed, his mouth going dry. New, fumbled words coming out. ‘Y-Yeah, actually. I do.’

Alfred blinked. ‘Wait, really? About the incident? Did you see who did it?’ He lowered his voice, smiling. ‘Was it one of the student council members?’

Yong Soo felt the tips of his ears burn, as though a spotlight was shining right on him. What was he even saying? What was he supposed to have remembered, anyway? He needed a lie, quick, before Alfred could see through him, that he was not only invisible, but desperate.

He opened his mouth, ready to spew out something stupid, probably, when a hand grabbed Alfred’s shoulder.

‘Alfred…’

Alfred barely turned around to see who it was before groaning. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something important here – hey!’

The other student grabbed Alfred by the shirt sleeve and pulled him out into the hallway, stern and crisp voice speaking rapidly over Alfred’s protests.

‘Just gimme a sec – ow!’ Alfred looked over to Yong Soo, reaching his hand out for unneeded dramatic effect. ‘Yong Soo! Monday lunchtime – meet me by the fountain!’

Yong Soo stood there, speechless and frowning, and watched the crazy fool get dragged away.

* * *

Yao stepped out into the dewy grass of Alfred’s backyard, glad to have found quiet at last. He could not stand the lively chatter of his home, the brief pauses in which he feared he would hear the doorbell ring, or hear a stone knock against his window. He preferred Alfred’s house party, of all places, than to face the possibility of Ivan finding him. Yes, Ivan would not show up here if he disliked Alfred as much as he did, if he believed Yao when he told him he would not be coming here this Friday evening.

To say Yao had been avoiding Ivan was harsh; it was more like minimising time in which they were alone together. At least, that was how Yao reasoned with himself every time that pinch of guilt came around to nag at him. They still ate lunch together, walked to class together, even if the conversations had strangely dried up, even if the question of why Yao was always in such a hurry to catch the bus home hung in the air uncomfortably.

In the darker distance of the garden, Yao spotted the outline of Ivan’s figure on one of the outdoor lounging chairs, lying on his side and facing away. His footsteps halted, his stomach fluttering for the brief moment of indecision. Should he turn back, pretend he was never here? It seemed like the easier option, and yet…

It was cold out.

The icy breeze of this November evening was sweeping through the garden and scattering dried leaves into the empty pool, and somehow the thought of Ivan lying out here shivering was enough to spark more annoyance than nervousness, more of this inexplicable protectiveness of that tall giant than any other feeling of hesitance.

Yao sighed and took off his coat, marching over to the lounge chair to drape it over Ivan like a tiny blanket. Ivan looked up at him, with confusion and then with an irritatingly charming expression of relief.

‘Are you trying to catch a cold?’ Yao asked. Ivan faintly smiled at this as he sat up, though his eyes remained sad, lonely even.

‘You said you weren’t coming.’

Yao pursed his lips, knowing he couldn’t lie himself out of that. ‘Why are you here? I thought you didn’t like Alfred.’

‘I was hoping you would turn up anyway. I was also sure you would be even more angry at me if I visited you…’

‘I’m not angry at you.’

‘You are.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Then why haven’t you been talking to me? Or walked home afterschool with me? Why have you been finishing your lunch early so you can sneak off to the library instead of sitting with me for the rest of the period?’ Ivan’s brows pinched together. ‘I said I was sorry –’

‘And I told you to forget about it,’ Yao cut in, his teeth starting to chatter from the cold, or perhaps the trembling of his voice – he couldn’t tell. ‘It never happened.’

Ivan looked down at the ground, hands fidgeting with Yao’s jacket in his lap. He shrugged. ‘Fine. Sit here with me then. Like nothing happened.’

Yao shook his head. ‘It’s cold out here.’

‘Then take your jacket back and sit.’

‘Is there even any space for me?’

Ivan’s head snapped up at Yao, eyes widened with indignity. ‘Yao!’

‘What?’ Yao snorted, unable to help a smile. ‘ _Aiyah…_ You know I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Well, I’ve made extra space for you anyway,’ Ivan said, scooting with a sulky expression. ‘Sit.’

Yao rolled his eyes and sat in the crook of space Ivan had made, tensing when he felt Ivan drape the jacket over his shoulders. He glanced around the garden for distraction in the silence, moving his gaze from plant to plant, from his to Ivan’s worn out shoes, eventually craning his neck up at the sky. He almost felt dizzy at the vast expanse that stared back at him, a black glimmering pool with no bottom.

‘You can’t see Sputnik anymore…’ Ivan hummed, and in that quiet moment Yao remembered how Ivan had once called that flying piece of metal in the sky _‘beautiful’_ , how he’d marvelled at it softly with his chin perched on Yao’s shoulder. How Ivan had crooned in that same way for a cut open heart – blood and arteries and all, when Yao could see nothing spectacular or pretty about it.

‘You sound disappointed about that,’ Yao said, feeling the slightest tickle of Ivan’s sleeve against his.

‘I am. It was…’ Ivan faltered. Yao looked to him, expecting that dreadful word. Ivan smiled shyly and shrugged.

‘Beautiful?’ Yao croaked out.

‘ _Da_. Beautiful.’ Even in the darkness of the garden, Yao could see the faint flush of Ivan’s face, the indecisiveness of his gaze. ‘…I can’t explain it. It was special. The only star of its kind.’

The trees above them whispered and hushed with the wind, framing the star-lit sky above as Yao tried to decide if it really was nerves making his pulse flutter like this, if it really was Ivan’s soft-spoken voice that was making him tremble, as though there was something Yao was meant to say, something Yao was meant to do.

Ivan’s hand shot up above them to point at the sky. ‘Did you see that?’

‘See what?’

‘One of the stars moved!’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, really! It was like a blip of light, and then it was gone!’

Yao chuckled, his teeth chattering. ‘You sound like Alfred.’

‘Don’t say that. I really did see something!’

‘I believe you.’

‘Do you?’

Yao nodded, his laughter fading, chest growing warm with unexpected fondness. Ivan took hold of his arm, his eyes widening with sudden realisation.

‘Maybe it was a shooting star. Don’t you think so?’

Yao could feel his pulse beating hard in his chest, through his arm where Ivan was holding him. That same terrifying excitement as before, this peak of wanting threatening to ruin it all for Yao’s life in Oldbrook.

‘Could be.’ Yao swallowed. ‘Are you going to make a wish on it?’

Ivan’s lips tugged up into a gentle smile. ‘You make one. It’s yours.’

‘Me? I don’t want it.’

‘But I want you to have it. Whatever you want, you can wish for it.’

‘I don’t have anything I want to wish for.’

‘Really?’

Yao shrugged, breaking his gaze off Ivan in fear he would see right through him, hear his thoughts loud and clear; that Yao was wanting him in the most pathetic way possible, avoiding yet dreaming about every soft touch and fond smile Ivan had ever given him, laughing yet aching at the fact that even if he could show Ivan how he felt, he would still have to hide it from the world in fear of bruises and broken bones. No imaginary wish could fix that. None.

‘Make a wish anyway,’ Ivan said, hand delicately untangling itself from Yao, leaving a momentary feeling of loss. ‘Whatever you are thinking of, that is making you look sad like that –’

‘I’m not sad –’

‘The shooting star might not fix it, but it’s worth a try, _da_?’

‘This is stupid.’

‘Make the wish.’

Yao furrowed his brows, Ivan watching him so earnestly and hopefully. ‘Not when you’re staring like that.’

Ivan smiled, glancing up and away. ‘Fine. I’ll look away. Tell me when you’re done.’

Yao sighed to ease his nerves, only to inhale and feel the quiet panic run through him yet again. He looked up at the sky and thought of that ridiculous wish, whatever it really was. To hold Ivan, to rest on his shoulder without fearing predatory glances – to not have to flinch away in the gut-wrenching fear that Yao would be made less somehow by wanting him.

He made that wish, only he didn’t tell Ivan he was finished. He savoured the moment of being alone together, of feeling simultaneously cold and warm in his company, lonely and comforted, nervous and at ease. Reaching his hand out a little further, he clasped his fingers around Ivan’s, and felt his hand close around his gently in return without a word.


	9. When Sunny Gets Blue

By the pinch of his ear, Arthur dragged him out into the garden, scuffling footsteps disrupting the quiet hum of the night crickets. Alfred winced, yanking free from Arthur at the first change he got.

‘I thought you hated rock n’ roll!’

‘Did you really think I wasn’t going to find anything suspicious about this?’ Arthur crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed with an accusation Alfred was pretty sure even his own parents wouldn’t give him when they saw the state of the living room. ‘That you just so happened to be throwing a party the day after you wanted to start an investigation? That you made a point of telling me there would be only the most awful music ever?’

Alfred shrugged, shoving his cold hands into his pockets. ‘How else was I supposed to…’

‘Run an investigation behind my back?’

‘I mean, when you say like that it sounds way worse than it actually is –’

‘You’re jeopardising the reputation of the debate club!’ Arthur had begun to pace around, like he was wanting to leave only each time he had something more to say. ‘Barely anyone even reads that blasted newspaper, and yet here you are shoving it in people’s faces, babbling like a madman about some culprit, or some – conspiracy by the student council.’ Arthur shot Alfred a glare before he could retort. ‘Yes, Alfred. I saw you invite Mark in, I know what you were thinking, and even if it was true, what are trying to do here? Get us lynched by the entire school?’

Alfred’s mouth went dry as he fumbled for something to say – something casual, something funny maybe, irrelevant even, anything but the truth.

‘You couldn’t handle spending a Friday night alone, could you?’ Alfred said, taking a careful step back when he saw Arthur’s features grow cold. Alfred chuckled. ‘Showing up like this all of a sudden… You didn’t want to hang around your half-empty house waiting for me to come get you and drag you out of there like I always do? Is that it? Was the quiet too much?’

‘You’re crossing a dangerous line there, Alfred,’ Arthur seethed through his teeth, his jaw grinding his words.

‘You pretend like _I’m_ the one stuck on you,’ Alfred continued, his fingers trembling, his mouth running off without stopping. ‘But you’re the one who’s stuck on me, because I’m the only one who sits next to you in class, the only one who comes over to your house on weekends, who invites you over for Christmas so you won’t have to spend it alone with your crazy-drunk dad. I’m the only one you can even call a ‘friend’ –’

Alfred stopped. He didn’t know if it was because his teeth were chattering too hard to speak, or because Arthur had given him a look of hurt he’d never seen before. Either way, he felt cold to his gut.

‘You know what,’ Arthur broke the silence, delicately, frigidly. ‘Run your investigation.  Do what you want. Sabotage to your heart’s content. I don’t care what you do.’

Alfred swallowed. ‘Fine.’ Arthur turned away from him without another word or glance, and Alfred burst into an incredulous chuckle. ‘Okay! Great! That’s real fantastic, Arthur.’

He swivelled around to watch Arthur disappear back into the house. ‘I’m so glad,’ he said, feeling the need for it, though his smile was faltering, slipping off his face like paint. He swallowed, again, fighting the heavy feeling in his throat. He looked elsewhere for distraction, catching onto the sight of Yao and Ivan sitting on one of the deck chairs on the far end of the large garden.

It was Sputnik all over again; watching those two side by side, linked together by some shy gesture – Yao’s hand, he could see it reaching, gently entwining itself with Ivan’s. Only now there was no pretty sight in the sky, not for Alfred, not for anyone.

The lump in Alfred’s throat turned to bile, a sickening impulse to gag. He headed back inside before he could give the feeling any satisfaction.

* * *

The crowds of the hallway had long since dissipated in the wake of the lunch bell – silent now, save for the nervous crinkling and folding of the worn-out newspaper in Yong Soo’s hands. His hands were getting annoyingly clammy, the ink starting to smear. Jin was giving a funny look, one of those _you-should-get-a-band-aid_ - _for-that_ looks. Only Yong Soo didn’t need a band aid, or anything at all really. He was just here to prove that blonde idiot wrong, show him he wasn’t just some dispensable buddy. Yong Soo was worth remembering, and he’d make sure of it this time.

Starting to get irritated by Jin’s pity staring, he huffed out and waved his hand. ‘Get lost, Jin. Geez, he’ll be here any minute now.’

‘It’s been five minutes since the bell rang.’

‘Yeah, and it’s been five minutes too many of you standing there watching me.’

‘He could have forgotten.’

Yong Soo wrung the newspaper in his hands as he checked either side of the hallway. ‘I don’t think so. I promised him information.’

A tiny, graceful smile formed on Jin’s lips. ‘Did you bring information?’

Yong Soo scoffed. ‘Of course I did.’ And it was good information, too. He doubted Alfred had the time to see it, with all that running around barking questions at people. Ah, but Yong Soo… he had the time, and he had the smarts. Alfred would see that pretty soon.

The click-clack of approaching footsteps set Yong Soo’s blood pumping. He turned to tell Jin to scramble – only to find no one there.

 _Sneaky bastard_.

‘Yong Soo, my man!’

He whipped around, watching Alfred come up to him from the end of the hallway with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his grin sunnier than usual. Yong Soo took a deep breath discretely, trying to get his heart to stop hammering in his chest. _It’s no big deal. Show off a bit and then leave._

‘So…’ Alfred glanced over each shoulder, as though anyone would actually be interested in eavesdropping on them. ‘I hear you got some intelligence on recent events…’

Yong Soo cleared his throat. ‘Uh – yeah. I do.’

‘Well…?’ Alfred did a small dance with his head. ‘Wanna tell?’

Yong Soo brought out the crinkled newspaper and unfolded it. He showed Alfred the front page with the photo of the vandalised classroom. ‘Notice anything funny about this?’

Alfred’s eyes darted between Yong Soo and the photo. ‘There’s nothing funny about slander, Yong Soo.’

‘No – I mean…. Okay, I won’t beat around the bush. There’s no paint splatter in the photo. Where’s the lavender paint everyone was talking about? If it really fell on Arthur like people have been talking about, then where’s the paint splatter on the floor and desks?’

Alfred frowned, grabbing the newspaper and squinting at it.

‘And all I could think was,’ Yong Soo continued. ‘Like, maybe the photo was taken _before_ Arthur even went into the room. Maybe whoever did this –’

‘Took the photo as well.’ Alfred’s eyes widened in awe, a smile playing at his lips. He grabbed Yong Soo by the shoulders. ‘Holy smokes! You’re right!’

Yong Soo froze in his grip. ‘I mean – of course I am –’

‘And I bet you were gonna say that the school paper club’s got something to do with it? Weren’t ya?’

‘Sure –’

‘Then what are we standing around here yelling for? Let’s go!’

Before Yong Soo could object, even feel disgusted with himself for feeling even the slightest bit giddy about this, Alfred yanked his arm and they ran.

* * *

The handkerchief fabric was soft and smooth, the feel of luxury despite the scrubbing Arthur had given it to remove the purple stain. Still, it remained stubbornly lavender. Arthur had tried to compensate – going as far as to steal his mother’s dusty sewing kit from the attic to make a decent attempt at stitching Alfred’s initials on it. If he couldn’t get Alfred’s old handkerchief back, he might as well make it anew. And personal. And maybe even, a discrete token of apology, for not being _quite_ the friend Alfred wanted. It was hard to remember the last time they had laughed together about something, or the last time Arthur had something to say other than: _Alfred, don’t_.

It had been in his pocket since that Friday evening, when he had been ready to give it back at that so-called party. It was supposed to be a surprise of sorts, though perhaps Arthur should have known better than to think he could ever out-surprise Alfred. _Bloody investigation_ – it was more like a one-Alfred catastrophe show. He could forget about getting his tainted handkerchief back.

Francis cooed as he seated himself opposite of Arthur. ‘You have not touched your lunch… Is heartache eating away at you?

Arthur furrowed his brows, still too dazed in thought to retort on-instinct. ‘… Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s yet another of Alfred’s ego-stunts.’

Francis shrugged, a sympathetic smile as he picked at the fries in his tray. ‘If you ever need a shoulder to cry on…’

Arthur scoffed. ‘Unlikely.’ He picked up the greasy burger from his tray – no bread buns, just the burger – and half-heartedly nibbled at it. Though the tuition fees at Oldbrook Academy raised each year, the food standards, seemingly, only got lower.

He caught sight of Alfred’s wild blonde head weaving through the crowds, their eyes only meeting briefly. He expected some sort of giveaway that Alfred felt bad, some small gesture, _anything_. But there was only the vacant, disinterested look on Alfred’s face, as though he had never said those careless, stupid things –

And what made him think he was qualified to say them anyway? Arthur wasn’t ‘stuck’ on anyone. He wasn’t lonely, he wasn’t afraid of sitting in the constant silence of his home, he didn’t jump at the ringing of the phone like it was his saviour, he never worried that his father would go into another wallowing, drunken stupor at the thought of mother. Arthur didn’t need Alfred. The fool needed _him_.

Since the day Arthur met him, Alfred was always after something new, something more thrilling and exciting than the last. He had a habit of following his curiosity to ridiculous lengths – one day it was his obsession to find the UFO that had supposedly crash-landed in Crook’s Creek. The next it had been the curious bubbling of the water, of which Alfred was certain was an indication of sinister government tampering. There had even been an incident involving Alfred’s attempted capture of the two green parrots which had mysteriously appeared near the school grounds. He was convinced they were actually alien spies – space drones, he called them.

Had it not been for Arthur bringing him down to his senses, Alfred may well have been ousted as an Oldbrook madman – along with the delusional ‘King Keith’ of Vickerfield and that woman who kept stealing tin cans from the rubbish bins in the middle of the night.

 _Space drones_ … _Ridiculous_.

‘Is something funny?’

Arthur blinked and glanced up at Francis. He was then conscious of the fact that the corners of his lips were upturned.

‘No,’ Arthur cleared his throat, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips to hide the smile. ‘Not really. I was just remembering something.’

‘Something lovely, _non_?’

Arthur paused, not sure how or why that question startled him. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and ignored Francis’ strange smile. There was nothing ‘lovely’ about Alfred. Only bizarrely, incomprehensibly, _unjustifiably,_ only ever so slightly _…_ endearing. But that was an answer he would keep to himself.

* * *

Alfred’s heart was pounding when he almost bust open the door with his shoulder, withholding his excited grin as he stumbled into the classroom and turned towards the culprits he would soon be apprehending for their crimes.

‘Stop what you’re doing!’

The sound of furious typing paused. A displeased student glanced irritably at Alfred and Yong Soo, then back to the typewriter with a clipped announcement.

‘Feli, visitors.’

A second student crawled up from behind a desk, his dazed expression settling on Alfred. A bright smile lit up his face. ‘Visitors! Welcome! Come in! Come in!’ He got up to extend a hand to Alfred, paper cranes and scraps of paper falling from his lap. ‘Feliciano Vargas. And this is my brother Lovino –’

‘Take them outside,’ Lovino grumbled, ripping a page off the typewriter and throwing it over to the corner where Feliciano was before.

Feliciano gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘M-My brother Lovi is funny, isn’t he?’

Alfred glanced at this ‘Lovi’ – a mumbling, grouch of a student, no doubt spiteful enough to target the debate club for kicks – and returned a light-hearted chuckle. ‘Yeah, he sure is.’ He shook Feliciano’s hand. ‘I’m Alfred, by the way. My friend here is Yong Soo. We’re here to uh, _enquire_ about your latest issue…’

‘Oh?’ Feliciano tilted his head. Yes, he was innocent looking enough. But those were the ones most dangerous, the ones you had to watch out for the most. Alfred gave a tight-lipped smile, unfolding and showing the front page of the newspaper.

‘Maybe you could explain a few things about the photo on the front page? Like where you got it from?’

The typing halted. Feliciano hummed innocuously.

‘I’m not at liberty to say…’

Alfred glanced to Yong Soo. Yong Soo shrugged. He turned back to Feliciano.

‘Maybe you want to answer that question again –’

Lovino chuckled to himself. Alfred turned to him, frowning. ‘What?’

Lovino shook his head, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. ‘You don’t want to be going where you’re heading.’

‘Oh? And where’s that?’

Lovino waved his hand dismissively. ‘You’re from the debate club, aren’t you? And you’re here to cry all about your problems and tell me I’m supposed to fix them… But I’m going to tell you now – you’re looking in the wrong place. Don’t look at all, if you know what’s best for you.’

Alfred scoffed. ‘Alright, wise guy. Don’t flip your wig, just tell me where I can find the photographer.’

Lovino shrugged, resting his feet on the desk with a look so flippantly bored it must have taken years to etch that expression onto his face. Alfred looked to Feliciano, only to find him picking lint off his shirt.

‘Yong Soo,’ Alfred turned around and nodded towards the hallway. ‘Mind if we have a talk outside?’

As soon as the classroom door shut behind them, Alfred dragged Yong Soo out of sight and lowered his voice.

‘They’re hiding something.’

‘Wow, you really think so?’

Alfred gave Yong Soo a deadpan gaze, only breaking the silence when Yong Soo sheepishly chuckled and looked away.

‘Anyway,’ Alfred continued. ‘We gotta drag it out of them somehow. I don’t know, maybe use some scare tactics. You up for using some muscle?’

Yong Soo’s brows drew together. ‘What? Are you out of your mind? We’ll get told on. I’ll get detention, or worse!’

‘Not if we scare them good enough.’

‘Are you listening to yourself? Are you listening to me?’ Yong Soo scoffed. ‘Next to you, _I’m_ the voice of reason, and that’s screwed up.’

‘Aw, come on! Don’t be a wet towel. Help me come up with a plan, man. Help out a partner, will you?’

Yong Soo scratched at his neck, sighing out. ‘Maybe… I don’t know…’

‘Maybe what? Say it!’

‘Maybe instead of scaring them, we give them something.’

‘We bribe them!’

Yong Soo blinked, pursing his lips to hide a smile, no doubt. ‘Actually, yeah, that’s what it would be… Wait, what are we bribing them with?’

‘Don’t worry. I got an idea.’

Alfred bust back into the room, disrupting the typing and paper folding. ‘Listen – How about we make a deal? We give you something, you give us something. What’s the saying, uh… _quid_ _pro_ _ho_?’

Lovino raised a brow. ‘ _Quid pro quo._ And unless it’s money or good food, we won’t take it.’

‘Okay, but I got something better than money. And good food.’ Alfred propped his leg up on a chair, leaning forward and pointing to his temple. ‘I got a headline. Right here.’

‘Who said we needed headlines? We don’t need your help or your unoriginal, last-season headlines.’

‘Are you sure about that? Because last time I checked, no one even knows what the school paper is called. Yong Soo, do you know what it’s called?’

‘Isn’t it the –’

Alfred cut him off. ‘See, he doesn’t know! And do you think people even read it? When’s the last time you guys ran out of copies? When’s the last time the trash cans weren’t full of your hard-work, all that time wasted? Huh? Not even your lavender scare page was good enough, barely anyone looked at it –’

‘Okay, you’ve made your point,’ Lovino said. He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in consideration. ‘We’ll listen, and if it’s any good, we’ll take it.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you the headline until you tell me who the photographer is. So… _I’m_ listening.’

‘Uh. No. I’m not letting you pull a fast one on me. You want to buy information? I need to see the goods.’

Feliciano fidgeted with the paper crane in his hands, setting it gently onto Lovino’s desk. ‘Lovi, what if he finds out…’

Lovino hushed him in lowly-muttered Italian before turning back towards Alfred expectantly. Alfred cleared his throat.

‘Okay… Here’s a headline you guys might find interest in: ‘Student Council Sabotages School Debate Club for Kicks’.’

Lovino’s shoulders sank. ‘Conflict of interest. No good.’

‘Oldbrook Academy cutting corners by serving public school food?’

‘Boring.’

‘Underground ruins beneath the school?’

‘No one cares.’

‘Sputnik returns?’

‘What?’

‘Government tampering with the water? Military covers up crash site by the creek?’

‘These are pulp stories, not news!’ Lovino made a growled sigh. ‘Listen, you bastard, either give me a real story or you’re leaving this room with zero information.’

Alfred paused, stumped, only to find in slow-approaching horror that he _did_ have a story – of Yao and Ivan, their silent glances and not-so-secret touches that they recklessly flaunted in front of him. Two boys flaunting affections like that in Oldbrook Academy was more than enough to stir up some buzz, more than enough to get people talking.

_(more than enough to get them neck-deep in trouble)_

‘Well?’

This story could save the debate club. It could buy him the identity of that culprit, give Alfred the information he needed to catch that guy and expose his crimes to the whole school, to make a fool out of him just as he did Alfred. _Nancy boys? Lavender lads?_ What did this person think they knew? Alfred wasn’t like that, and he wouldn’t have anyone – no one, not even Arthur, _especially_ not Arthur – think otherwise.

‘You know what?’ Alfred chewed on his words, one final time before spitting them out. ‘I do have a story to tell you.’

* * *

In the last ten minutes, Ivan’s foot had been inching its way over to Yao’s, carefully yet casually so that someone like Arthur might not think much of it. And whilst Arthur wasn’t particularly interested, he had noticed nonetheless. Took pity when Francis stretched his legs out beneath the table and set Yao’s feet shifting further away.

‘Seven eights…’ Francis set a small handful of cards onto the pile. Yao looked to him with narrowed eyes.

‘You don’t think I noticed?’

‘Noticed what?’

‘I’m calling your bluff.’

Francis chuckled. ‘See for yourself.’

Yao lifted five cards from the pile and turned them over. There it was, seven eights. Yao muttered under his breath and dragged the rest of the pile towards himself. Slapping five cards onto the table, he sighed. ‘Five nines.’

Ivan hummed. ‘Is this true, Yao?’

Yao scoffed. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Because I have five nines as well.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘Yaochka…’ Ivan gave a coy smile as he reached his hand toward the pile. ‘You try so hard…’ He turned the cards over and paused. Five nines.

Yao burst out into laughter.

Ivan frowned and shuffled through his cards again, mouthing the numbers as he counted. He reached ‘four’ before his face flushed. Yao pushed the small spread of nines towards him, struggling to restrain his laughter.

Francis glanced up at Arthur, the slight upturn of the corners of his lips taunting him. Arthur could imagine what he was wanting to say: _Still waiting for that boy?_

Arthur turned away from them, pretending to have found some unwiped chalk on the board and busying himself cleaning it, sweeping the brush over where tiny specks of red paint had dried and refused to scrub off. He stole a peek at the doorway, expecting somehow to see Alfred running down the hallway, babbling about the latest craze of his and how they should spend the debate meeting discussing it instead of practicing for the next tournament.

But the hallway was empty. And really, Arthur should have known better. He’d snapped at Alfred, told him he could do whatever he wanted. Well, this was it. Alfred was doing as he pleased. Why would debate be one of them? The idiot was probably busy running his mouth off about the club, spreading rumours unwittingly. And eventually, as always, Alfred would come back to him, sulk until Arthur patched his ego up.

He glanced at the clock. Half past four. They’d played games and waited long enough, though Arthur wasn’t really finding the heart to make his tiring walk home. What was he even going home to? An empty silence to greet him? An insufferable dinner with his sullen father? Briefly, he entertained the thought of going on another improvised detour with Alfred in Poppy the red Chevrolet. Even with the speeding and the UFO shenanigans, Arthur would go back to that moment in a heartbeat. Just for the sunlight, and the bubbling optimism Alfred seemed to exuberate – happiness that never seemed to come so easily to Arthur.

He glanced over to the others to tell them he was heading home, when he caught sight of Ivan’s feet ensnaring Yao’s leg between them. Yao stifled a grin and wrapped the other leg around Ivan’s, setting off a secret tug-of-war beneath the table. Francis didn’t seem to notice.

Arthur stood there for a moment, unsure if it really mattered whether this club lived up to its new name of ‘Lavender Lads’. He quietly left the classroom, heading home with heavy feet and a head high up in the clouds of what might be if he was ever brave enough to give Alfred that handkerchief back – and smile.

* * *

It was a long time before Alfred realised he hadn’t caught a single word out of his Geography teacher’s mouth. The clock read half past eleven, and his notebook was lying open and blank. Though his pencil had been poised in his hand for the past half hour, he couldn’t bring himself to write. Not when his heart wouldn’t stop hammering in his chest, not when his gut felt like it was dropping down to his feet every time he remembered Yao’s chipper face in Economics this morning.

He had looked so earnestly happy, even whilst taking the class test. For the first time since the start of the year, Yao seemed neither bruised nor expecting bruises.

Alfred shifted forward in his seat and absent-mindedly copied down something from the board. He needed to get himself together. It was just a stupid headline, anyway. A joke – who would believe that two Oldbrook Academy boys were going steady? The sight of Ivan and Yao together was ridiculous. The lumbering, soft-spoken Ruskie and the China boy? No one would believe it. And that’s why Alfred said it, told that newspaper club about their odd petting and gazing. Alfred _knew_ it wasn’t going to actually hurt anyone. And at the end of it, he got the information he needed to save the club. Everyone wins, right?

‘Discuss with a partner.’

Alfred blinked out of his daze, the classroom around him breaking into low conversation. Automatically, he looked to his right where Arthur sat, only to wish he hadn’t.

‘Um…’

Arthur sighed lightly through his nose, rubbing his temple. ‘Did you hear anything at all?’

Alfred pretended to find interest in his ‘notes’ and shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I always cram anyway.’

‘How is the investigation going?’

Alfred glanced up, frowning. Trying to find sarcasm in Arthur’s voice or expression and failing. ‘It’s going great, actually.’

‘Any findings so far?’

Alfred scoffed. ‘Loads – and what does it matter to you anyway?’

Arthur went quiet, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. He looked stiff as a board, not that he didn’t always look stiff, but Alfred was sure in this moment that if someone picked him up, he’d lie still as a corpse.

‘Alfred…’

The sound of his own name was softer than he’d expected. Tender, pleading almost, and for a moment Alfred thought he had imagined it up. He watched Arthur’s eyes waver from his and knew that he was about to hear something un-Arthur like – something kind, something sweet, something that wasn’t stiff and dry, something Alfred had only secretly wished for.

Arthur’s clasped hands relaxed, opening by the slightest. ‘I meant to return it to you last Friday –’

‘Enough with the pity bullshit.’

The classroom fell silent. Alfred’s heart was beating wildly – in his throat, it felt like – as he clumsily got out of his seat, the chair and desk screeching against the floor. Arthur was staring at him with that stupidly indignant look of his, as if Alfred was meant to just smile and accept whatever ridiculous gift Arthur was holding in his hands. As if waiting this long for a kind voice was something small, forgettable, _passable_. As if Alfred was meant to breakdown and reveal himself to be just as needy. With this entire school watching? With that mock-sympathy in Arthur’s voice? Alfred didn’t want it. He didn’t want _any_ of it.

Ignoring the teacher’s calls to him, he almost bolted out into the hallway, his face burning up to the tips of his ears, his hands balled up into tight fists. He wanted to kick something. He wanted to cast everything aside. So what if the school knows about Yao and Ivan? They shouldn’t have been fooling around like that, out in the open, in _Alfred’s_ garden like it was the easiest and most joyous thing in the world. And to hell with Arthur. To hell with his pity-soaked words, his see-through attempt at keeping Alfred from doing something he didn’t want. To hell with the debate club and Oldbrook and everything that promised Alfred a perfect and happy life when none of it was ever enough, when the only thing worth dreaming about was never going to be yours anyway.

His feet stopped; peering into a classroom, he saw Yong Soo. The guy looked miserably bored, and before Alfred even properly thought about it, he waved a hand at him through the window. Yong Soo looked over and frowned. Alfred waved again. _Get here._

Moments later, Yong Soo slinked out of the classroom, a wooden bathroom pass in hand. ‘What?’

Alfred grabbed the bathroom pass and chucked it down the hallway. It banged against a locker. ‘We’re going to Jimmy’s.’

* * *

Watching Alfred engorge himself with his third king-sized burger was almost painful to watch. It was one impulsive bite after the other, and Yong Soo was starting to think that the Alfred sitting across from him had unravelled into some sort of imposter. Gone was the poster boy with the toothpaste smile – this one was a little terrifying.

‘Aren’t you gonna eat?’ Alfred gulped down a chunk of burger. He pushed his fries towards Yong Soo. ‘Come on, man. My treat.’

Yong Soo pushed the fries back. ‘I just had my lunch half an hour ago. Didn’t you?’

Alfred shrugged. ‘Yeah. And?’

Yong Soo sighed. ‘Nothing. Never mind.’ He looked out the window, keeping his eyes on the lookout for neighbours that might recognize him and catch him cutting class. His parents, if they weren’t already disappointed with his academic performance, would learn disappointment on an entirely new level. Not only was Yong Soo playing truant, he was pandering to this pitiful guy’s self-wreckage. Alfred wasn’t saying anything, but he could feel the expectation hanging in the air.

_What’s wrong, Alfred? You seem down._

_Well, Yong Soo, it’s because I am. You wanna know why?_

Alfred slurped loudly at his drink, sucking it dry. He grabbed at the fries – so desperately that Yong Soo was now sure it was all a performance. It had to be. Whiny rich kid wanted someone to throw his problems at, and this was his three-year old way of giving a big fat hint. Tapping his feet like some nervous wreck and raising his hand to the waitress to order yet another burger whilst he was still stuffing his face with fries –

Yong Soo snatched the fries out of his hand. ‘Alright, quit it!’

‘Quit what?’

‘I get it, okay? You’re sad, you’re mad, you’re lovesick, whatever! Just tell me about it so I can go back to class.’

Alfred’s face relaxed, falling almost into something forlorn – and then gone in a flash as Alfred burst into laughter.

‘Me? I’m fine!’

Yong Soo stood up from his seat. ‘You’re such a fake.’

‘No, wait, don’t go!’

Yong Soo lifted finger up in warning. ‘If I’m gonna be your audience for today, you better get the damn show going.’

Alfred quieted. He wiped away at the crumbs on his cheek and shrugged. ‘Okay, fine. Sit.’

Yong Soo slumped back into his seat, exhausted from having been this guy’s buddy for an afternoon, let alone a week. He waited. ‘Well…? How’s life, Alfred?’

Alfred looked up at him, his brows lifting in overdramatic sorrow. ‘Who _lives_?’

Yong Soo paused. ‘Is that… from a movie?’

‘No, it’s from me. Completely original.’

In a brief moment of horror, Yong Soo had the strange feeling he was looking in the mirror. _Is this what Jin puts up with everyday?_

‘And anyway,’ Alfred said. ‘What’s truly _original_?’

Yong Soo waved his hand dismissively. ‘Okay, stop that. What’s really bothering you? Is it some girl?’

‘What? No.’

‘Your parents?’

‘No.’

‘Your car?’

‘No, just shut your trap for a minute.’ Alfred sighed and looked over his shoulder – Yong Soo wasn’t sure if this was new of if he had never noticed him doing this so often before. He hesitated and leaned forward across the table. ‘It’s the investigation, okay? And like, some other stuff too, but that’s not important right now –’

‘What other stuff?’

‘Just – stuff. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I keep thinking about what we found out the other day –’

‘No, wait…’ Yong Soo shimmied up from his slump and rested his arms on the table. ‘I wanna hear about the other stuff. It’s personal stuff, right? Like, _girls_ –’

‘Will you shut up about girls?’

‘– or _guy_ problems.’

Alfred froze, staring at Yong Soo for what felt like the longest second. ‘Guy problems, what do you mean by that – What do you mean _guy_ problems?’

‘Well, you know. Sometimes guys get jealous of their pals, or they get into a fight, or they like the same girl, things like that.’

‘Oh.’

He sounded disappointed. ‘Oh?’

Alfred’s eyes widened. ‘Uh – yeah. I meant, _oh_ , like – Yeah, of course. Guy problems. I know what you mean. Like… when your friend hates you. You know? Like I think maybe this whole time I’ve been friends with this guy, he’s hated it. Even though I’m trying to do something good, like this investigation crap – I’m trying to save the damn club!’ Alfred chuckled weakly. ‘And he’s been so wound up about that. I don’t know why. I think he’s a control freak. Only now he’s doing this weird compassion-pity thing, and it looks so _fake_ , I can’t stand it –’

Alfred gave a sharp exhale, rapping his fingers on the table. He looked to Yong Soo. It looked like a signal for input, though Yong Soo didn’t know what to say.

Alfred slurped at the ice-water in his glass. ‘You know what? It’s stupid. Never mind. I’m just being a wimp here moaning about this. But you know what I think we should do? I think we should take care of this Brandon problem. He’s been on my mind, that bastard…’

‘Brandon?’ Yong Soo echoed back. ‘The guy who took the photo? What’s he got to do with your problem?’

‘Nothing.’ Alfred pointed his finger. ‘And everything. Don’t worry about it, I got a plan. We’re gonna get a confession out of him easy like squeezing ketchup out of a bottle.’

Yong Soo furrowed his brows, not sure if he was truly helping Alfred here, or just giving him a deluded sense of validation. Maybe he should have said something before. ‘How? What are you talking about?

‘We are gonna ask him nicely first, which he probably won’t listen to. And then we’re gonna beat the crap out of him.’

‘What?’

‘I kid, I kid,’ Alfred chuckled. ‘It’s a joke, I’m trying to be funny here. We’re not gonna beat him, Yong Soo. We’ll just be convincing enough with our words.’

Yong Soo didn’t buy it. ‘Don’t do it.’

‘Don’t expose Brandon for what he did?’

‘Don’t fight him. You’re gonna do it, I know it.’

Alfred scoffed, a playful smile on his lips. ‘I just said, I’m not _gonna_ –’

‘I’ve said this more times than I’d like to,’ Yong Soo swallowed, remembering bruises, remembering kids even before Yao who tried too hard to remain dignified, only to be crushed all the more for it by people like Brandon. Yong Soo had always been the one tiptoeing on the side-lines, picking up one broken friend after the other, until he decided not to bother keeping friends like that any longer. He wasn’t going to watch yet another get himself beaten bloody and broken. ‘But don’t fight him, okay? You’re gonna lose, and it’ll hurt like hell.’

Alfred only chuckled, shaking his head like Yong Soo had cracked a joke of some sort. But the only joke here was how despite Yong Soo’s reluctance to ever care what Alfred thought about him, that laughter stung.

* * *

In the far side of the cafeteria, Arthur spotted that familiar sun-kissed blonde head poking through the crowd. Walking out into an open space, Alfred was dragging along with him a seemingly unwilling dark-haired boy. The boy seemed to be hissing something – curses, probably – but Alfred already had his eyes set on someone at a nearby table. Too late, Arthur saw that it was Brandon.

Arthur stood up, ignoring Francis’ concern as he marched over to the crowd that was forming around Brandon’s table. He squeezed through the spectators, not sure what he was going to do other than watch in horror as Alfred ruined his social life here at Oldbrook completely.

‘Might as well give it up, Brandon,’ Alfred said. ‘We know you did it.’

Brandon raised an unimpressed brow. ‘Did what?’

‘You know exactly what. The lavender paint, the photo in the school paper. It was all you, and I’m here to settle this.’

Brandon smiled. He swivelled in his chair towards Alfred. ‘And who made you sheriff? Damsel in distress over there? What’s his name? Yang?’

The dark-haired boy yanked his arm away from Alfred. ‘Yong Soo. And I’ve got nothing to do with this –’

‘Brandon, you’re gonna report yourself to the principle,’ Alfred interrupted. ‘Or we’ll do it for you.’

‘Uh – no.’ Brandon chuckled. He raised his hands. ‘Wow. How easy was that? No. I’m not doing it. And you can do your best calling daddy for help, but no one’s gonna defend a couple of Nancy boys. Principal won’t give a shit about it.’

‘It’s slander and you know it.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hit a nerve there? Calling you and your friends Nancies?’

Alfred’s jaw hardened, teeth grinding like they were chewing his next few words. ‘Maybe you won’t have a problem fighting me then. Since I’m just a Nancy, apparently.’

‘Sorry, Alfred. I don’t hit women.’

Alfred’s arm slung out without warning, his fist aiming for Brandon’s jaw – only to get caught mid-air. Brandon tightened his grip on Alfred’s wrist.

‘You’re asking for it.’

If Alfred was even the slightest bit afraid, he wasn’t showing it. ‘Let’s take it outside then. I wouldn’t want to beat you in front of your girl.’

Brandon shot up from his seat, glaring as he followed Alfred and the excited crowd into the hallway. Arthur stumbled, reaching out for Alfred’s shoulder between the clamouring students, feeling sick to his stomach that he wouldn’t be able to stop him. Alfred slipped away, disappearing into the hallway and the cheers.

 _Alfred, you bloody idiot_ –

The first punch was the hardest to watch.

Brandon wasted no time in dealing damage, landing his punch hard against Alfred’s temple. Alfred stumbled, his glasses falling to the floor as another punch rammed into his jaw. A spot of blood marked the floor. Arthur’s hands balled up into fists, pushing forward through the crowd to get to him, to shake that bastard out of whatever foolish reasoning he was clinging onto – when the crowd started to boo.

Alfred had thrown a punch back. Blood dripping down his lip, he laughed and cradled his reddened knuckles as Brandon keeled over. Alfred wiped his lip. ‘How do you like that –’

Brandon kicked him down to the ground, descending upon him with one furious punch after the other, each sickening thwack knocking Alfred’s head from side to side. Arthur leaned forward to step out of the crowd, only to be held back by a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Francis standing behind him, a look on his face telling him: _don’t_.

‘You want in on the action, gook?’

Arthur whipped around. Yong Soo was standing in over Alfred, his hands visibly shaking and his eyes darting around like they were already searching for an escape. His hands slowly curled into fists.

‘I’m…’ Yong Soo exhaled shakily, his voice weak. ‘I’m tired of watching –’

Brandon’s knuckles snapped Yong Soo’s head back against the lockers. His body slumped to the ground – and the hallway fell silent.

* * *

Somehow, the day had turned to night already. Yong Soo could see the haze of shooting stars above him, the shadow of a night sky falling over him. His left eye felt heavy, throbbing. The searing ache made him groan, as he struggled to follow the voices wandering around him.

‘…get the nurse.’

‘Don’t move him – is he awake? What’s his name?’

‘Stay here.’

Footsteps hurried, growing further away. Yong Soo opened one eye – his left felt as though it was welded shut – and saw with sinking disappointment that the shooting stars had only been the yellowed ceiling lights. He was still here in this shithole school. Punched up and deadbeat. He had just done the one stupid thing he’d been avoiding for years – never again, he told himself. This was the last, the last time he would stand up for an idiot like Alfred.

A whisper tickled against his face. ‘Hey.’

Yong Soo glanced over. Alfred was leaning over him, looking ridiculously optimistic with his bloodied face and wonky glasses. He managed a sigh, before Alfred cut in.

‘Don’t say anything. Don’t move, actually. You got sucker-punched and Arthur thinks you’ve hurt your head real bad. Like maybe even broken your neck or something.’

It didn’t sound quite right, but Yong Soo didn’t care to question it. He vaguely spotted Arthur’s shadow looming over them, perfectly still. Alfred looked up, licking his bloodied lips as if to say something, until Arthur broken the silence.

‘What exactly were you trying to prove here, Alfred?’

Alfred’s eyes faded in their eagerness, now hesitating. ‘He was the culprit –’

‘Look at you…’

There was a wordless lull, one in which Yong Soo couldn’t quite tell if Arthur’s voice had been quivering with worry or fury. But he could see something in Alfred’s eyes, the soft blink and the tell-tale sign of desperation in his small lean forward.

‘You haven’t helped one bit, Alfred. You’ve only made a circus show of yourself. And the club. You’ve gone and made this all some sick ego trip of yours – and don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.’

A limp smile grew on Alfred’s lips. ‘Artie…’

‘Francis will be back here with the nurse soon. You look well enough to take care of Yong Soo in the meantime.’

Footsteps sounded out, each one further than the last. Alfred’s brows pinched together.

‘Arthur.’

The cafeteria doors swung shut. Yong Soo just wanted to close his eye and sleep, exhausted from the ringing in his head, the aching – the self-loathing, that surely should be kicking in about now. But something on Alfred’s face kept him looking, this tiny flicker of hurt. Alfred took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, only to hiss in pain and cradle his face, keeping his hands there for what felt like the longest time.

In that near-silent stillness, Yong Soo heard a lone sniffle.


	10. For All We Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big thank-you to Nacho for the beautiful artwork! You can find her amazing art on Instagram [here](https://www.instagram.com/spaniscch/). I really appreciate all of the support you guys have shown for this story, and hope you'll like these last few chapters as well (two more to go after this one!). So, as always - enjoy :)

The key was handed to Yao’s clammy hand, cool in his palm as Arthur peered over his shoulder and frowned.

‘Why is there only one key?’

Their chaperone, Mr. Waldron, ignored Arthur’s question as he signed a form and handed it to the smiling receptionist. The hotel lobby was bustling with boisterous chatter, unforgivingly loud in a way only high-school students could speak. The receptionist brought out a second key.

‘Your room is in the east wing, Mr. Waldron. Close to the pool, just as you asked.’

Mr. Waldron mumbled out his thanks, grabbed the key, and as if he had only just remembered he was chaperoning four students to a two-day long debate tournament in another state, he made a stop and turned.

‘You boys are in the west wing. Third floor, I think. Room 308.’

‘And the other rooms?’ Arthur asked.

‘One room, son. Have fun.’

Arthur’s brows pinched together. ‘But…’

Their chaperone was already walking away, leaving the receptionist to look at them expectantly. Arthur scratched his neck, glanced at the group and rolled his eyes. ‘Alright, gentlemen. Onwards we go... I suppose.’

Francis chuckled. ‘Does sharing a room trouble you?’

Arthur muttered for him to shut up, leading the way towards the elevator. Yao picked up his travel bag, stepping into the elevator and bumping against Ivan’s chest as they all squeezed themselves in. Francis’ eyes betrayed a glint of mischief, but before anyone could question it, he jammed his hand over several buttons. The elevator doors closed shut.

‘Francis, you dolt! Why did you do that?’

‘I thought we should take the scenic route.’

‘In an elevator?!’

Yao glanced up at Ivan, rolling his eyes and taking pride in the small, hidden smile forming on Ivan’s lips.

‘I’m the scenery,’ Francis cooed, chuckling when he was met with a barrage of Arthur’s curses. It was enough distraction for Yao to brave yet another glance at Ivan – and for Ivan to deliberately brush his hand against Yao’s, a small and secret touch that sent the tips of Yao’s ears burning. They had been toying with touches and glances for several weeks now, tip-toeing on the line between what was acceptable and what wasn’t, as if this made-up boundary would save them from scrutiny. A brush of the hand wasn’t so dangerous, and yet, with the careful way in which Ivan’s finger outlined the edge of his palm, Yao thought his heart might start beating loud enough for the entire elevator to hear. It almost infuriated him. Ivan couldn’t just _do that_ – turn simple gestures into coy promises, and quiet moments into cruelly thrilling ones.

The elevator doors finally released open, cold air wafting in like a breath of relief. The group stumbled out, dragging their travel bags behind them as they read the number plates on each hotel door. When they reached their room, it was with an embarrassingly shaky hand that Yao unlocked the door, revealing a room with four single beds. Arthur gave a foreboding and unnecessary hum, as if there was something suspicious about it. Yao claimed the bed closest to the heater, and Ivan sat quietly on the bed next to it.

‘Alright, gentlemen, don’t get too comfortable. We’ve got the guest speech in half an hour, and several debates after that. Stick to the usual teams.’ Arthur dumped his bag onto a bed, taking a not-so-subtle glance in Ivan’s direction. ‘We don’t have a backup member anymore, so cold feet is no longer an option. We might have only ended up here through sheer luck, but we’re well-prepared.’

Francis raised his hand. ‘I forgot to bring a tie.’

Arthur grimaced, sighing through his nose. He grabbed his bag and unzipped it. ‘I’ll lend you one of mine.’

‘ _Merci_ …’

Yao glanced to Ivan, once again catching themselves in these strange, knowing looks they had grown accustomed to. Ivan smiled.

‘Is Yaochka nervous?’

‘Not one bit,’ Yao huffed out, the words coming out as a half-lie. Nervous about the debates? Hardly. He was more than used to it by now. But there was an uneasy sense of delicateness about this all that he couldn’t shake off, as though with every glance and touch, some unknown clock was ticking away, counting down the precious moments before they were found out. He adjusted the tie around his throat, and wondered not _if_ they would be caught, but _when_.

* * *

It had only been two minutes since the first debate motion had been announced, and already Arthur was furiously jotting down a speech that was guaranteed to reach the maximum time length. He had so much to say; it wasn’t often that he was given the time and place to talk about the needlessness of television.

Beside him on the hallway bench, however, Francis was doing nothing more than stare at the window, his pen rapping against his notepad. This wasn’t unusual. The show-off always managed to come up with a decently eloquent speech with three mere bullet points.

‘I’ll take the points about reduced literacy and social isolation,’ Arthur said, causing Francis to wake from his daze and shift in his seat. ‘You can talk about lack of physical activity or something. It’s not terribly hard to put a negative spin on television.’

Francis hummed, drawing out a pause. He leaned back and rested his elbow on the back of his chair, imitating a familiar show of confidence. ‘ _Man_ ,’ he said, accent distorted – and frankly, horrifying. ‘You sure are old-fashioned, Artie, old pal, old buddy o’ mine.’

Arthur blinked. ‘Are we really playing this game now?’

Francis shrugged, stifling his laughter. ‘TV is _cool_ , man.’

‘Actually, Alfred wouldn’t say that. He –’ Arthur paused, finding himself playing along yet again despite all his efforts not to do so. They had been entertaining themselves with this silly game of ‘Pretend You’re Alfred’ for a while now, and each time Arthur found himself doing the strangely satisfying thing of making the corrections necessary, telling himself it was to make the game funnier, better. But it only ever got more real. ‘Alfred likes movies,’ he continued, toying with the seam of his left pocket, ‘but he wouldn’t trust the programmes set by the government. He’d call it his guilty pleasure. He’d say he probably only enjoys it because he’s been brainwashed by the national anthem that plays every night.’

‘The government does that?’

‘No, don’t be stupid.’

‘But Alfred believes in it?’

‘Case in point.’

Francis hummed, processing the new information before straightening up in his seat. He cleared his throat. ‘ _Yeah_ , but – that’s what the government wants you to think. They use their alien powers and… stuff.’

‘Alright, he’s more eloquent than _that_.’

The corners of Francis’ lips turned up – a knowing smile Arthur had learned to dread. ‘You secretly admire him, don’t you?’

Arthur almost wanted to tear out the seam caught between his fingers. Admire? The thought insulted him. After what that idiot had done, how could admiration play any part? Never mind the childish things he said to Arthur, Alfred had done more damage to the club than any petty headline. Rumours spread viciously, even reaching the ears of their teachers. Their club was branded as a band of potential troublemakers, kept under close watch by afterschool chaperones – after all, as one of them had put it: _where there’s smoke, there’s fire_.

Not even the newspaper club was safe. Under temporary suspension for distributing ‘indecent and unacademic content’, they only proved to show that no one, not even those pointing their fingers, were safe. Arthur was certain however, that it wasn’t the end of the monthly school paper, nor was it anywhere near the end of this reign of scrutiny. Thanks to Alfred, they were being watched for the tiniest of slip-ups, flimsiest bit of proof that they were indeed, bloody ‘lavender lads’.

‘He’s a clown with a dictionary,’ Arthur said. ‘There’s hardly anything to admire.’

‘Not even his sunny American accent?’

‘Especially not.’

Francis started with the voice again. ‘ _Aw_ , but _Artie…_ ’

‘Enough of that. We’re not playing that game anymore. We’ve got five minutes left to prepare and all you’ve written down is the motion.’

Francis sighed in surrender. ‘I already know what I’m going to say, but if it pleases you to see it in writing…’

‘Do as you wish.’ Arthur shifted his legs away from Francis to continue jotting down notes for his speech. ‘Just… don’t do that godawful accent in front of the judges.’

* * *

Ivan took another deep breath, feeling it sweep through his body in one nerve-wracking wave of panic. It was no good – his hands were shaking and his gut felt tight, like they always were before a debate. Practice made no difference. There was nothing about speaking in front of strangers that he could ever get used to. Break time was coming to a close, and soon enough he would have to stand up on that podium again, and hear his own trembling voice fumble and stutter.

A hand patted his shoulder. He turned to find Yao offering him a bag of pretzels.

‘You look pale. Eat.’

Ivan gingerly took the bag, though he wasn’t hungry. Yao took a seat next to Ivan on the bench, quietly sighing as he slumped down. Normally, in the past month and a half, these moments alone led to something – a game, a tease, some thinly veiled excuse to touch. And sometimes, if no one was looking, Yao would do some impulsive, endearing thing like press his cheek to Ivan’s shoulder, or make a timid request for Ivan to play with his hair. Their touches were chaste, timid, always leading towards something more only to stop cold. And right now, in the presence of other students who probably barely even noticed them anyway, the air between them was frozen over.

Ivan chewed away at the pretzels, braving a glance now and then, wondering when the courtyard would empty so he could do something about the delicate frown on Yao’s face. Impatient, Ivan nudged Yao’s foot with his. He was met with a questioning glance.

‘Are you nervous about debate?’

Yao made a growled sigh. ‘You’ve asked me that three times already. No.’

‘You look troubled.’

Yao’s gaze lingered, like there was something he wanted to say. He grabbed a handful of pretzels and looked away. ‘Don’t worry about it. We can’t talk about it here anyway.’

‘Oh…’ Ivan watched Yao half-heartedly eat at the handful of pretzels, sullenly picking one out only to barely nibble at it. Feeling compelled, Ivan reached out to take hold of Yao’s ponytail, a smile tugging at his lips as gently pulled and smoothed it. ‘Does Yaochka want me to cheer him up anyway?’

‘ _Aiya –’_ Yao choked on a pretzel, a deep rosy flush creeping up his face. ‘Not here –’

‘So we meet again!’ a hoarse voice bellowed. Ivan recoiled his hand away, looking to the unwelcome interruption in front of them. The student seemed to be about their age, with frosty hair and skin so pale it was almost translucent. He continued to bark at Yao, completely ignoring Ivan’s presence. ‘And it seems fate has deemed you pitiful enough to bring you here!’

‘What?’ Yao coughed, his eyes watery and cheeks still recovering from their blush.

‘Your team. You were fourth place at the semis.’

‘Yeah, we know,’ Yao said.

The student took a quick, hawk-like glance at Ivan, as if only just making the observation that he was here. He glanced back to Yao. ‘You were lucky one of the finalists dropped out.’

‘We really are, yes. Now what do you want?’

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’ Ivan asked. Yao shrugged and shook his head – _not worth your time_.

‘Gilbert Beilschmidt!’ He grinned and folded his arms behind his head. ‘That’s a name you’ll be hearing again, trust me.’

Ivan blinked, now recognizing that devilish face. This was the same smile that had hurt Yao, that had scared Ivan off the podium in that debate not too long ago.

‘I’m from the Darlington School for the Gifted, if you couldn’t already tell.’

Ivan slowly curved his lips. ‘No need to introduce yourself any further. I already know you.’

Gilbert’s grin wavered, almost falling before picking itself back up again. ‘Right, uh – Anyway, I hope you guys are prepared to lose sorely. You’ll be watching me in the final debate tomorrow, basking in the glory of the spotlight and the scholarship prize. Every team that’s won in this competition is academically set for life, you know. Law, medicine, politics, you name it. Now me, personally, I got my sights set on doing law someplace great, like Harvard. Just imagine me in a nice suit, my polished shoes walking across the courtroom floor – imagine it, _ja_?’

Yao only sighed quietly through his nose. Gilbert paused.

‘What? You can’t?’

‘Maybe you should go bother someone else.’

Gilbert’s toothy smile faltered. ‘Ah... Well, it’s uh – no problem, if…’ His hands fell down to his side. ‘Okay, listen, I didn’t really come here to brag. I just wanted to…’ He glanced at Ivan sheepishly. ‘Say sorry for last time. And maybe start our rivalry off on a clean slate. I don’t even know your names.’

‘This… isn’t a joke?’

‘No joke. But I _will_ have to laugh manically when I leave you guys, so my friends don’t, you know, think I’m a nosebleed.’

The tiny wince on Yao’s face told Ivan he wasn’t completely happy with that compromise, but he extended his hand out anyway.

‘Yao Wang.’

Gilbert shook Yao’s hand, then awkwardly lingered when Ivan didn’t offer his hand and only smiled.

‘Ivan Braginsky.’

‘Cool,’ Gilbert quipped, backing away. ‘I’ll see you guys later then – when I’m winning and you’re losing!’

Gilbert strode away cackling, the sound leaving a trail of curious glances from other students. Yao’s forced, stiff smile faded.

‘Did you know about the scholarship?’ Yao asked. ‘I didn’t.’

Ivan shrugged. Yao’s brows drew together, pensive as though his thoughts had taken him elsewhere – the uncertain future, perhaps. The clock tower struck midday before he could ask about it, the crowds rushing to yet another debate and drawing Yao with them. Ivan got up and followed, his clammy hands squeezed shut. But strangely, it wasn’t the idea of speaking on the podium that wrung his nerves most in that moment – it was losing sight of Yao.

* * *

‘One loss won’t cost us our place in the finals,’ Arthur said, studying the crispness of his shirt carefully in the mirror. He slipped on his suit jacket and smoothed it out. ‘So don’t worry too much about losing to those German scoundrels, Yao –’

There was a loud thump against a wall. He spotted Yao darting across the room in the mirror reflection, hearing an exasperated sigh and Ivan’s shiver-inducing chuckles.

‘Ivan, give it back!’

Arthur pursed his lips. He glanced to Francis’ reflection in the mirror; he was seated on one of the beds, quietly polishing his shoes and seemingly not caring about anything else. Arthur smoothed over the seam of his left pocket, finding the scene in the mirror somewhat empty.

‘I can’t go downstairs without my bowtie,’ Yao huffed out from the corner of the room, sounding a little breathless – presumably from the running around and chasing he’d been doing the past half-hour. ‘Now please, give it back.’

‘ _Nyet_. You will have to stay.’

There was quiet laughter, a sarcastic mumble of ‘ _that’s unfortunate’_ from Yao, which Arthur chose to ignore. Eyeing the clock, he quickly did his bowtie and gave his hair a final slick back.

‘The dinner speech is starting soon. We should go.’

Arthur stopped at the doorway and glanced back. Francis was preening himself in front of the mirror. The other two were now resorting to playfighting.

‘ _Gentlemen_.’

Francis raised a snobbish brow at him.

‘Don’t give me that look, you f–’

‘I will join you.’ Francis’ lips broke out into a smile. ‘Since you’re so adamant on having company.’

‘I’m adamant on behaving as a team.’

‘They’ll come down later,’ Francis said, waving a casual hand in Yao and Ivan’s direction. ‘Meanwhile, we should be hurrying to get the nicest table, _non_?’

Arthur drew his lips in a thin line. ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

The elevator ride down was silent, save for the annoying tap of Francis’ index finger on his silver wristwatch. He glanced in Arthur’s way.

‘What?’

Francis opened his mouth to speak, and by the mischievous glint in his eyes, Arthur already knew what was coming.

‘So what’s the _haps_ , old man?’

Arthur scoffed, trying not to give away that he was admittedly, a little amused. It was exactly the sort of thing Alfred would say, ridiculous shortenings of words and all. He busied his hands with smoothing away the non-existent wrinkles in his jacket and trouser pockets.

‘You’ve already been Alfred once today,’ Arthur said. ‘Don’t you think twice is a bit excessive?’

‘I was waiting for you to begin, but you never did.’

‘My American accent is terrible.’

‘It can’t be worse than mine.’

Arthur grimaced, eyeing the elevator door and hoping it would open and save him from making a fool out of himself. The doors giving no indication of opening soon enough, he huffed out. No one else was here –  and really, with everything that’s happened, Arthur was entitled to indulge just a little in this game.

‘Alright…. _Last night_ ,’ he started, using his most nasal, over-stressed pronunciations, ‘my mom turned up the thermostat too darn high. It was – _crazy_ hot in my room, so I went to open my window and… there it was. One of _them_. Right outside my window.’

‘One of them?’

‘You know. Not human. Grey. Tall. Legs slender like a chicken. Eyes big as saucers... An alien.’

Francis snorted, letting loose his laughter before Arthur could continue with the story. The rest of it was still clear in his head, every word of Alfred’s fresh as if it had been spoken yesterday, though it was almost over a year ago. It was an incredulous tale. But Alfred had told it with such a straight face, that Arthur had almost felt sorry for him, thinking these nightmares must have been so vivid and disturbing that it was hard for Alfred to see them as anything else other than twisted reality.

Catching his breath, Francis cleared his throat. ‘A-And then? What happened?’

The elevator doors drew open. Arthur was the first to walk out, relieved he wouldn’t have to continue. The rest of the story was too personal, anyway, too odd and heart-breaking to ever tell another soul about it. He was surprised Alfred had ever told him in the first place, but perhaps it was because he never saw it as something terrifying. On the contrary, he ecstatically claimed it as his personal proof to Arthur – _see,_ they _exist._

Francis pestered him to finish the story, only giving up when he was supposedly distracted by a waiter in the dining hall. Francis disappeared off to ‘have a chat’, leaving Arthur to sit down at an eight-seat table that looked miserably empty with only him in it. By the time the opening speech had been made and the food had been served, only the two of them were seated. Them, and that mysterious bottle of wine Francis had returned with.

Francis had been pouring a sneaky glass of white wine for them both when the topic of Alfred had inevitably resurfaced.

‘Do you think he’s come all the way out here to cheer us on?’

Arthur shifted his glass away before it could fill up more than halfway. ‘How did you get that wine?’

‘I think I saw a red Chevrolet outside. Do you think it’s Alfred’s?’

‘You do realize we’re underage in this country? I’m sure no one would bat an eye in France, but here…’

Francis raised a brow, smug enough not to even dart a cautionary glance behind as he hid the wine bottle beneath the table. ‘You must have seen him. Maybe even sensed him. Don’t you keep thinking he’s going to charge in out of nowhere and start shouting about the latest oddity?’

Arthur huffed out. ‘Alright, enough of that. Why are we talking about him like he’s dead? Why are we even talking about him at all?’

Francis shrugged. ‘Because you want to.’

‘ _I_ want to? You’re the one who’s obsessed with imitating him and bringing him up in _everything_ –’

‘And you’re the one who secretly smiles when I do. And pretends I don’t notice that you keep checking whatever’s in your pocket whenever he comes up.’

Francis took a leisurely sip of his wine, no doubt taking pleasure in the heat that was rising to Arthur’s face.

‘Why is your gaze that low in the first place?’

‘Arthur! How –’ Francis choked on his wine, breaking out into spluttery laughter, ‘ – forward of you!’

‘Stop spitting wine at me.’ Arthur wiped at his cheek. ‘And forget about your weird ploys and mind games. I’m not taking part.’

‘Fine, we’ll talk about something else.’ Francis gestured his glass towards Arthur’s. ‘Let’s make a toast.’

Arthur sighed. He raised his glass. ‘To our debate team.’

‘To Oldbrook’s _finest_ debate team.’

Their glasses clinked together, earning suspicious glances from the other tables. Worried about the possible repercussions of drinking alcohol at a school event, Arthur downed the entire glass of wine. He winced at the sour taste.

‘Really?’ Arthur coughed. ‘You like drinking this?’

Francis smiled, taking his time with one slow sip. ‘It’s an acquired taste.’

‘Whatever. Drink up before we get caught.’

* * *

‘Don’t take too long, gentlemen. Francis and I will get us a table close to the front.’

The hotel room door closed shut. Yao and Ivan stood perfectly still as they listened for the softening echoes of footsteps, waiting for complete silence to fall. Ivan had his arms outstretched up, bowtie in hand where Yao couldn’t reach despite being on his tiptoes. Yao had been fighting a smile, occasionally tugging at Ivan’s scarf like he was intending to climb him to get to the bowtie. It was an addictive sight, to see Yao both flustered and amused. Ivan couldn’t help but reveal a smile in return.

‘Okay, they’re gone,’ Yao huffed out. ‘Give it back now.’

Ivan gently lowered his palm, watching Yao pick the bowtie out of his hand and step away. He didn’t like the distance between them, didn’t like how shy longing had taken its place. ‘Let me do it for you,’ he blurted out, pulse quickening when Yao gave him a curious glance.

‘You only just asked me for help tying yours a few minutes ago,’ Yao said, returning the bowtie and lifting his ponytail up. Ivan slid the bowtie around the back of Yao’s collar, hands brushing against loose fringes of hair.

‘Maybe I want to practice,’ Ivan mumbled. He tugged at the ends of the bowtie, revelling in Yao’s stumble closer, in the quiet whispering of fabric and how Yao’s intent gaze on him was making his skin burn up as if he was beneath a sweltering sun. He would miss this closeness too much when it was over, this moment together, this evening and the days that would follow it. It was too precious, too dear, he didn’t want this to end and yet the fact that he was fumbling only irritated him. One mistaken loop after the other, his clumsy hands undid each one and started again, and again, and –

Yao caught his hands. ‘You’re trembling. Relax.’

A high-strung chuckle burst out of Ivan’s lips. ‘I’m fine…’ He swallowed and attempted to correct this terrible knot he’d made. Yao gingerly pried his hands open, undoing the knot and walking him through the steps once again, his voice reassuring in its softness.

‘We should go downstairs,’ Yao said as soon as the bowtie was done. ‘They’ll be announcing the finalists soon.’

Ivan’s stomach did a flip. ‘Or we can go outside.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s nice out,’ Ivan lied. It was as cold as mid-January could get.

Yao sighed. ‘You know it’ll be suspicious if we don’t go to the dinner.’

‘Suspicious how? That we’re good friends?’ Ivan laughed weakly. ‘We haven’t even… really _done_ anything –’

‘It doesn’t matter what we do. We could play card games all night. It’ll still look weird. We spend too much time together. We’re teenage boys – we’re supposed to… I don’t know. Go bowling and talk about cars and stuff.’

Ivan’s laughter was genuine this time – amused and wanting to hug that face close to his chest for making a worried expression like that. ‘We can talk about cars if that’s what you want.’

Yao waved his hand dismissively. He started to make his way to the hotel room door. ‘ _Aiyah_. Forget it. Let’s go. We can’t really miss it. It’s an important announcement.’

‘ _Nyet_ , we can’t miss the gardens here either!’ Ivan caught up to Yao, a terrible feeling in his stomach, a nerve-racking panic he’d never really felt this badly before. ‘Please, Yao, come with me. It’ll be nice, I promise!’

‘What part of ‘important announcement’ don’t you get?’

Ivan broke his gaze away, not sure he understood this feeling entirely himself in order to explain it. He made a beeline for the veranda window, opening it up. ‘Here, look,’ he said, stepping out onto the balcony. The cold air stinging his face, he grabbed onto the rail as he looked out onto the gardens below. ‘Look at that… and it smells so nice, too –’

‘Ivan –’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?’

Yao grabbed his shoulder, brows furrowed as he studied Ivan’s face. Ivan laughed.

‘Okay, we’ll go to the gardens,’ Yao sighed, rubbing Ivan’s shoulder. ‘Just please don’t give yourself a heart attack thinking about the announcement.’

‘A bit of vodka would be nice right now.’

‘I’m sure it would. Come on now, let’s go.’

Once outside, he was quick to select a seat by a fountain, where the gentle splashing of water would cloak their whispers, and the hedges surrounding them would give some privacy. In the peacefulness of the empty garden, it was easy to feel the entirety of this overwhelming, buzzing panic – like there was a terrible grey storm approaching his way, though he didn’t quite know where it was coming from or how to stop it. He told himself it was because of debate, because he was nervous about possibly having to speak in front of multiple schools and judges tomorrow morning, because he always was and always would be an anxious mess when it came to strangers. But the feeling would not shake, wouldn’t go away even when he reassured himself with Yao’s presence.

‘What is it?’

Ivan blinked, turned to see Yao’s concerned face. It was sweet, a kind of expression he never thought he’d get from anyone that wasn’t related to him by blood. He treasured it more than was good for him, because surely these moments wouldn’t last. Time had a cruel way of passing by faster when you adored the moment, and with the vague memory of what Gilbert had said earlier, a question spilled out of his mouth.

‘Where will you go after you graduate?’

Yao’s brow relaxed. ‘Oh. It’s still early to think about that, don’t you think?’

Ivan shrugged, feeling stupid for bringing this up. ‘You must… have an idea of some kind...’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into diplomacy like my father.’ A smile quirked onto Yao’s lips. ‘Put up with all sorts of people across the world.’

‘Travel lots.’

‘Exactly!’

‘You won’t stay in the same place twice.’

The shimmer in Yao’s eyes faded. ‘Ah… yeah. But it’s not as if I don’t do that already. Only difference is I’ll get paid to do it. And I won’t be dragging anyone with me.’

Ivan hummed, reluctantly imagining that future. And where would Ivan be? Still here in Oldbrook, wallowing? Or maybe in some far off, cold laboratory, doing the science he used to dream about as a child? Where was Yao in that?

‘I’m joking,’ Yao said, almost whispering as he leaned in and bumped his shoulder against Ivan’s. ‘I’ll drag you along with me. I’ll pack you up in my suitcase and smuggle you across borders.’

A tiny, half-hearted smile grew on Ivan’s lips. ‘I won’t fit…’

‘We’ll figure something out.’ Yao’s eyes lingered on him, watching him in consideration. It was almost nerve-wracking, being poured over by those dark eyes, knowing that somewhere in that look Yao might give away something, a thought, a feeling, that it might set Ivan’s heart yearning. Ivan was the first to break eye contact, choosing to watch the ripples in the fountain water instead.

Yao shifted in his seat, suit fabric hushing with the movement, and Ivan was certain he was still being watched, as if he might burst into tears at any moment. Ivan was fine. Debate nerves, that was all. That was the twisting of his gut, the tremor of his hands. And as for the future, there was nothing to worry about, truly. Like Yao said, they’d travel together, or perhaps they’d work together, somehow, who knew how these things turned out…

To his surprise, he felt the press of Yao’s cheek on his shoulder. ‘What is it your family calls you?’ Yao asked softly. ‘That nickname you told me about ages ago…’

‘Vanya?’ Ivan croaked out, not sure what he’d done to earn Yao’s affection like this. Did he really look that sad?

‘That’s the one. Vanya.’ Yao’s lips curved, his downcast eyes staring off into the grass like they were reliving a warm memory. ‘It suits you so much more.’

‘It does?’

Yao nodded. He glanced up at Ivan, deep irises roaming fondly over his lips, his nose, his eyes. Yao ran his index finger affectionately over the bridge of Ivan’s nose. ‘It sounds sweet.’

Only then noticing the slight flush on Yao’s face – Ivan knew well these words and gestures didn’t come easily from Yao – a small, nervous chuckle burst from his lips. His chest overwhelmed in a single breath, he caught Yao’s hand in his and pressed his smile to it.

‘ _Aiyah_ ,’ Yao exhaled, stifling a full-fledged grin. ‘What’s that look for?’

Ivan shrugged. After a pause, he leaned over to press a chaste kiss above Yao’s ear – spending a moment just like that, with his nose nuzzling against jet-black hair and his unsteady hand still holding onto Yao’s. He brushed his lips over Yao’s temple, his brow, his cheek which had once held such a deep, horrible bruise. He wanted Yao to only ever feel kindness on his skin, to never have to recoil from touch or fear it, to never have his pride crushed by it.

‘Vanya...’ Yao exhaled out, short bursts of laughter escaping him as Ivan’s lips pecked against his cheek. His fingertips gently touched against Ivan’s face, their caress sending a shiver down the nape of his neck. He pressed a clumsy kiss to Yao’s cheek, a loud ‘smack’ before moving further down to kiss the corner of Yao’s lips – barely brushing against it when he was pushed away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ivan spluttered out, a humiliated red creeping up to his face. He’d done it again, made a fool out of himself and bothered Yao. ‘I shouldn’t have –’

Yao hushed him, his eyes darting elsewhere in caution or fear as they often did. ‘I heard something.’

Ivan exhaled a shaky breath, not sure if he was going to be able to hold back these embarrassed tears, nor the apologies he was uncontrollably spewing. ‘I’m so sorry –’

‘No, I’m sorry. It’s not safe out here. It was a bad idea, I should have said something –’

The sound of footsteps sent them both silent and tense. The hedges shivered, a figure emerging out of them.

‘Uh – excuse the interruption, I guess.’ Alfred brushed a leaf off his suit, stepping into the light of the fountain.

‘What are you doing here?’ Yao snapped. ‘Looking for more reputations to wreck?’

Alfred winced, scratching at the back of his neck. ‘Listen, I… Don’t really want to stir up trouble here.’

‘Really.’

‘I only came here to give you a letter. I was gonna give it to you in class the other day, but… you know me!’ Alfred forced a chuckle. ‘I… forget stuff. Sorta. So have it now.’

Alfred handed an envelope to Yao. Yao took it with a suspicious glance.

‘Who is it from?’

‘Oh, uh – Yong Soo. Yeah, he… had some stuff to say to you, but couldn’t. Being in hospital and all.’ Alfred started backing away. ‘Just… read it okay? I’ll leave you guys alone, now.’ After a few paces away, he hesitated, turning back briefly. ‘And… mind the photographers. Like – just be careful.’

Yao and Ivan said nothing, watching Alfred slink away into the shadows – who knows where, with a suit like that. Who wore something like that just to deliver a message?

Soon after, Yao and Ivan returned to their room, deeming it too late to go to the dinner with any hope of getting food and settling for leftover pretzels instead. Too nervous about the prospect of getting caught, they slept in their separate beds, though Ivan stayed facing Yao’s twisting and turning form beneath the sheets. The night fell away quickly into the realms of troubled sleep, in which Ivan was always chasing something, always missing and never catching – always out of reach.

* * *

The rest of the dinner crawled by – an endless conversation loop about the contestants they had encountered, the food, the music, the bloody _weather_ – and by the time the two finalist teams had been announced, Arthur couldn’t care less about any of it. Darlington versus Oldbrook, who cared? He had downed that second – third? – glass of wine too fast, and now struggled to keep his thoughts steady. One moment he was talking about the cheeky bugger who’d sneakily given him points of information mid-sentence, and the next he was lost in a vivid memory of a camping trip, an improvised adventure Alfred had taken him on last fall. He lingered on the details like he might glean something new from them, though he wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find.

‘I need some fresh air,’ he heard his own voice say, clumsily untangling his feet from the legs of his chair. He ignored Francis’ concerns, aimlessly wandered through hotel hallways until finding his way outside into the parking lot. It was raining small flecks of ice, soft enough to melt as soon as they touched skin. Dark, cold and quiet; it was a peace he found calming. And there, in the spotlight of a yellowed lamp, was Poppy’s crimson glow.

He should have felt irritated at the sight of it. That Alfred, who expected Arthur to cater to his every egotistical need, who so childishly ruined the reputation of the club, who went so far as to get himself beat up to make himself a martyr, who was now sitting there waiting for pity – and yet, all Arthur could feel when he saw that car was _relief._

Alfred glanced up from the magazine in his hands, the lamp post above illuminating his blonde head like some ridiculous halo.

‘Did you guys win?’ Alfred asked.

Arthur’s steps slowed to a halt, merely paces away from Alfred. The air felt still in the long, deliberating pause, in which Arthur’s words had failed him. What could he possibly say? What was there even left to say, when he knew they would only fall into the same patterns of pushing each other’s buttons only to find each other inexplicably drawn back to each other. He was tired, too tired and too cold to really fight the loop.

Arthur sighed. ‘Any particular reason you’ve turned up in your best suit?’ he asked, though he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Alfred say it. _Ask for a chance to apologize, give me an excuse to forgive you, for goodness sake, Alfred, make this easier –_

‘Oh… this darn thing? It’s the snazziest-but-not-too-snazzy thing I could find. You know, snazzy enough for debate. Not that I was planning to take part. I’m actually here for the scenery.’

Arthur wanted to groan. ‘The scenery. Here in this parking lot.’

‘Obviously not _this_ scenery.’ Alfred chuckled, closing his magazine. ‘I hear the nearby lake looks amazing at night. I was about to go for a ride once the moon was out from behind the clouds. You, uh… you’re invited to join if you want. I got more than one seat here, so why not?’

‘You suited up to look at a lake.’ Arthur let the words sink in. Of all of Alfred’s lies and excuses, this was by far the worst. ‘Alfred, either my tolerance for you has reached abysmal levels, or your lying has gotten incredibly worse.’

Alfred pointed a _come-on-now_ look at him. ‘Poppy missed you, alright? At least come and say hi.’

Arthur took a moment to consider – no, to pretend. He had already decided he was getting in the car, out of need for a seat to steady his wobbly legs, and more worryingly, out of his shameful nostalgia. But he could never lose face for that. After a decently drawn out hum, he sighed. ‘Alright. A short ride to the lake. No detours.’

‘Detours, gotcha.’

‘ _No_ detours.’

‘That’s right. Detours.’

Arthur rolled his eyes, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling his belt. The engine promptly revved up, and the car swerved out of the parking lot and into the dark, sparsely lit roads. The university buildings quickly transformed into forested slopes, the road ahead winding and turning. The sky was clearing of its clouds, leaving behind a trail of stars, and Arthur was reminded of the countless alien abduction stories Alfred had told him, how they always took place in the dark of the night and the loneliness of the countryside.

‘Wonder if we’ll see one of them,’ Alfred mused, not sounding the least bit apprehensive about the prospect of being captured.

‘Maybe you can introduce me to them,’ Arthur said jokingly, hoping to earn a smile at any moment, only for it to never come.

‘Not sure you’d want to meet them,’ Alfred said, his voice soft. There was silence for the rest of the drive.

Pulling up to the lake, the wheels crunched gravel as they slowed to a halt. The full bright moon had finally shed its silver clouds, glaring down at its own reflection in the lake. Distant trees formed vague, ragged shadows, their tops swaying in the wind. The water shivered with the breeze.

Arthur looked to Alfred. He was looking out pensively onto the lake, his brow troubled.

‘Makes you really forget, doesn’t it?’ Alfred sighed. ‘When you’re alone out here… it’s supposed to help you forget things.’

‘I suppose… It _is_ quite beautiful.’

Alfred turned to look at him, a pinched look on his face. Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d said exactly, but it seemed like there was pain in Alfred’s expression.

‘What is it?’

Alfred’s eyes hesitated, wavered as they seemed to search for escape in the lake. He swallowed. ‘Remember that incident I told you about ages ago? About my visitor.’

‘You mean the grey alien.’

Alfred scoffed. ‘Yeah, whatever. _That_.’ He smoothed his fringe off his face. ‘I left out some details when I told you about it. There was stuff that happened after I was taken away –’

‘I know, they opened you up. You saw your organs picked out one by one. It was a dream, Alfred. A nightmare.’

‘It was more than that.’ Alfred snapped to look at him, his eyes fervent and glistening. ‘I saw myself, my body. It was – not right, Arthur. It wasn’t me...’

‘It wasn’t real.’

Alfred shook his head, his voice growing thin, breaking as he spoke. ‘They cut me up and there was someone else inside.’ He exhaled shakily. ‘There was an alien inside. I saw that thing’s – that monster’s grey arm crawling where my arm should have been. It was there the whole time, growing, tearing me up from the inside –’ Alfred’s voice caught on a trembled breath, his lips quivering at the corners. He bowed his head down to try to hide it, to take his glasses off and hastily wipe off tears as though Arthur wouldn’t notice.

‘Alright, Alfred,’ Arthur sighed as he pulled Alfred’s head down to rest on his shoulder. He rubbed Alfred’s quivering back, feeling the jolts of hiccupy sobs against his chest. ‘It’s alright… It’s just an old nightmare.’

Alfred shook his head against him, now clutching at his sleeves. ‘It’s s-still just as true –’

Arthur pursed his lips, not sure what he was going on about. How long had this been pent up in Alfred? How long had this nightmare been haunting him, how long had these fears been stacking up in Alfred’s mind despite the convincing smiles and laughs? This entire time Arthur had been pushing him away, seeing only childish tantrums and not the hurt that was running deep. He closed his arms around Alfred, waiting for his ragged breaths to calm.

‘You’re not an alien, Alfred. Don’t be silly.’

‘I don’t know what to –’ Alfred exhaled sharply. ‘I don’t know what to do…’

‘Don’t know what to do about what?’

Alfred quieted. He felt smaller than he looked in Arthur’s arms, his broad shoulders now sunken, desperately trying to fit themselves against Arthur. In the chill of the night breeze, there was only the sound of water rippling, of shifting fabric as Alfred buried his face closer into the crook of Arthur’s neck, in favour of the warmth of Arthur’s skin instead of his shoulder.

Inexplicably, Arthur felt a pain as though his heart had been squeezed tight. ‘Alfred…’ he sighed, the corners of his lips feeling heavy. He began to pull away. ‘You would be wasted on me –’

Alfred yanked him back, keeping his face stubbornly pressed to his chest. ‘Don’t look at me.’

‘The feeling will pass.’ Arthur untangled himself from him, diplomatically, arm by arm and shoulder by shoulder. ‘You’ll get over it and find a wonderful woman someday –’

‘I told you not to look at me,’ Alfred snapped, his voice wobbly as he turned to face the other way, towards the swaying reeds by the lake. He curled up in his seat and hugged his legs to his chest. Arthur reached out to gently touch his shoulder, only for his hand to be shirked away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said quietly, his hands fidgeting in his lap, restless, reaching to touch his left pocket, though he was too much of a coward and a fool to ever empty it. He’d already done the damage, broken Alfred’s heart though it was the only right thing he could think to do. ‘It’s for the best, you know that…. Alfred, say something please –’

‘I’ll drive you back,’ Alfred said, his voice still paper thin. He wiped at his face and put his glasses back on, steering his gaze anywhere but on Arthur. ‘It’s late.’

Arthur said nothing as the engine started up, leaving the handkerchief tucked away deep in his pocket.

* * *

The announcer called for the second to last speaker. The clapping of the audience echoed outside the dimly lit backstage, Yao’s chest slightly fluttering with nerves as he read over his notes a final time.

‘Has everyone got their speeches ready?’ Arthur asked, for what could have easily been the seventh time despite the team’s insistence that _yes, they were ready_. Yao folded up his notes and stuffed it into his pocket – only to find something already there.

He pulled out a crumpled letter and grimaced. He’d forgotten about it, had eagerly stuffed it away as soon as he read it on the way back to the hotel room last night. It was a belated, needless apology from Yong Soo, and he didn’t care much for it. Of course Yong Soo would feel bad _now_ – of course he’d regret leaving Yao defenceless as he was being stuffed away into a locker, of course he’d think it was terrible that he turned Yao away for befriending Ivan. Yong Soo got a bruise, a knock on his head, and now babbled on about standing up to people like it was some amazing revelation. Wrote about not wasting your years living in fear, like it was easy.

The sympathy had come too late. And besides, what good did it do Yao now? Yong Soo might have been a jerk at the start of the year, but maybe he knew better. Maybe people like Yao just weren’t born to win their fights. Maybe hiding and staying low was the only battle they _could_ win.

He excused himself from backstage, getting out into the college hallway to find a bin. He gave the letter one last pitiful consideration, looking once more at the scrawled handwriting and the sentiment he’d found himself irritably haunted by.

_(For all we know, these years are the best ones we get.)_

He scrunched up the letter and dropped it in the trash. As he turned, he saw Ivan pacing around near the backstage door.

‘Hey,’ Yao called out softly, approaching him. Ivan looked at him, his face paler than usual. It was that same troubled look as yesterday, when Ivan had gotten himself worked up about the announcements. ‘What’s wrong?’

Ivan took a moment to answer – a tremulous swallow before croaking out. ‘I don’t think I can… go out there...’

‘Of course you can. You’ve done it many times before.’

Ivan shook his head. ‘It’s different today.’

‘It’s only a bigger space, and a few more people. Keep your eyes on the judge with the kindest face and you’ll be fine.’

A short, strained laughter choked out of Ivan. He pressed his hand against the wall as if to keep himself standing. ‘I would, but I don’t think I can even stand without shaking like a leaf… I’ll look so stupid…’ His balance wavered, his knees bending as he slowly slid down to the floor.

‘ _Aiyah_. What are you doing?’ Yao crouched down in front of Ivan. ‘Vanya…’ he chuckled, hoping to elicit a smile from him. Ivan only darted his gaze around the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest.

‘We should go,’ Ivan spoke softly, barely above a whisper. ‘Somewhere quiet, where we don’t have to worry.’ He took hold of Yao’s hands and cradled them close, nuzzling his cheek on the back of Yao’s hand. ‘Maybe then we won’t have to spend so much of our time hiding and pretending. Time won’t run out so fast…’

‘Where’s this coming from?’ Yao asked, unable to help but dart a cautionary glance before running his thumb over Ivan’s cheek. ‘Nothing’s running out. I’m here.’

‘But for how long?’

Yao opened his mouth to answer, only to shrug. ‘I don’t know…’

Ivan nodded, a tired smile on his lips though his brow remained troubled. Yao wanted to ease that pinch in his brows, wishing that giving comfort was as natural to him as it was to Ivan, bitter that something as simple as a kiss would only do more damage than good. It was a risk, and Yao knew it, he knew so well what the bruises and names would feel like if he took it.

Yao swallowed as he checked the hallway once more, his heart pounding as he leant in towards Ivan. He pressed his lips to the crease between Ivan’s brows, breathing in against the tickle of Ivan’s feather soft hair, feeling that breath fill up his tightened, terrified chest. But he revelled in it, felt relief in Ivan’s touch. How could he have missed this? How could he have shied away from something so wonderful, when this dangerous gamble was so worth it? He closed his eyes and smoothed his lips down to the bridge of Ivan’s nose, pressing them more firmly, his stomach fluttering with nerves as Ivan touched him back, delicately running his fingers through Yao’s ponytail. Time like this shouldn’t be wasted on fear or caution, not when it felt this good. For all they knew, these moments were their precious few.

Feeling brave enough to bridge this small leap, this tiny shift of his lips to Ivan’s, he placed a chaste kiss to the top of Ivan’s lip, closing his eyes and smiling when Ivan tugged him closer for a longer, sweeter embrace.

Amidst the pounding of his heart, the soft brush of breaths, a click and flash of light pierced through. Yao and Ivan sprung apart, too late in noticing the figure scrambling away down the hallway.

The backstage door bust open. ‘Gentlemen,’ Arthur announced as he peeked his head out. ‘We’re up!’


	11. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Walking through the school hallway on a Monday morning was more difficult than usual. Eyes seemed to stick onto Yao for longer, their gaze following, their lips moving with whispers and snickers. On any other day, Yao might have ignored it. But with the warm memory of his clumsy kiss with Ivan, with the haunting of that troublesome camera click, he felt sure, almost _certain_ , that all of Oldbrook knew. He picked up his pace, footsteps lighter than usual as he zipped through the crowd in an effort to get to Biology class before anyone could stop him.

He ducked into the Biology classroom, ignoring a piercing whistle from a group of boys out in the hallway. He shut the door behind him, finding a classroom that was almost full, and yet unusually quiet. He took his seat near the front with his eyes averted to the ground. His fingers trembled when he opened up his notebook to a fresh page.

They couldn’t have already found out, could they? Surely not. Who was to say the whispers and murmurs behind his back were about him and Ivan? And as for the staring, the whistling, what was so new about that anyway? Yao was only being paranoid, that was all. What could a person do with a photo like that, anyway? Share it, and expose themselves as perverts for watching?

Yao had crossed out and rewritten the date several times by the time the bell rang – he couldn’t think straight, and nothing was really making sense. There didn’t even have to _be_ a photo. What if he imagined that up, too?

He glanced up at the clock, wondering why class hadn’t started yet. Everyone had gone quiet. The teacher was pacing around the front of the room, idly looking around to disguise the fact that she was taking glances at Yao. He felt his pulse quicken. Was it that obvious? Did he look that guilty? He squeezed the pencil in his hand wondering when she would finally break this awful silence. She stopped at her desk and glanced down at a folded newspaper. Yao leaned over, peering at the paper though he already had the sinking feeling that he knew what he would find.

A grainy, shadowy picture almost covered the entire front page. It was sloppy: the flash was much too strong, and the cameraperson had forgotten to move their finger away from the corner of the lens. But in that photo, illuminated by a much too bright light, was Yao and Ivan’s faces, pressed together and smiling stupidly. Yao wished he could completely shrink into his seat, curl up into a ball so that maybe the painful knot in his stomach might ease.

The classroom door made a timid click open. Ivan slid into the room, glancing around sheepishly as he made his way to the seat next to Yao. He looked to Yao with a furrowed brow, probably wondering why it was so quiet. Yao’s throat was too dry to explain.

‘Braginsky. Wang.’ The teacher sighed, folding the newspaper up into a tight roll in her hands. ‘You’re wanted in the Principal’s office.’

Neither Yao nor Ivan had to say anything to each other to understand what was happening. Silently, they left the room with their gazes averted, keeping that way even through the hallway. Their teacher stood at the classroom door and watched them leave. When they had reached the office, Alfred, Arthur and Francis were already sitting in the waiting area. Two other boys were there, too, though Yao didn’t recognize either of them.

Arthur, who had been pre-occupied staring into the space of the carpet, glared up at them and huffed out. ‘You couldn’t have saved it for the hotel room?’

Yao and Ivan quickly took their seats without saying a word, only glancing at each other, maybe in hope of comfort, only to find that they were both just as uncertain.

There was a tiny pop of sound in the room. Alfred had just smacked out a bubble of chewing gum. Noticing that he had Yao’s attention, Alfred leaned forward and offered a small, aluminium wrapped stick.

‘Want some?’

‘No,’ Yao said, the sound coming out as a wispy croak. Alfred shrugged and leaned back in his seat, a smile and an easy look on his face that Yao wasn’t expecting. Alfred’s eyes stuck onto him longer than needed, and it sparked sudden anger in Yao. That sugar-glazed smile, the cautionary words Alfred had not so subtly given to Yao and Ivan on the night before the tournament – they had been sold, that was what had happened. Alfred had sold them, who knows why, and here he had the gall to _smile_ at Yao.

‘Oh, enough with the meekness,’ Arthur growled at Yao, sitting forward in his seat. ‘Do you realise what this means for us? How you’ve completely and utterly destroyed our future prospects? Forget the bloody debate club, you’ve ruined us all academically, for _life_ –’

‘Will you shut it?’ Yao snapped. He swallowed, his throat really itching for a glass of water. It was warm in here, and all eyes were sticking onto him, asking questions without saying them out loud. Maybe it was a bit bold, or maybe it didn’t even matter anymore, but Ivan’s hand reassuringly touched against his, reaching to hold when the office door opened and startled them all. Principal Gibson stood at the doorway, scanning them all with a brooding frown. He stopped at Yao.

‘Yao Wang? Let’s have a talk in my office.’

‘Just me?’

The principal pushed the door open and waited for Yao. Yao glanced to the others for a quick moment before entering the office, his pulse quickening once again as he took a seat in front of the principal’s desk. He didn’t want to have to explain the photo, didn’t want to hear from someone else what Yao had been telling himself already.

The principal pushed a folded newspaper forward on the desk. ‘Wang, do you know what this looks like?’

Yao barely looked at the paper before responding quietly: ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what does it look like?’

Yao glanced up at the principal, his brows pinching. How would he even say it?

The principal’s voice sharpened. ‘What kind of message does this picture give, Wang?’

‘I-I don’t know,’ Yao blurted out. He almost felt sick with the way his face was burning up, with the deliberate pointed-ness of the way his last name was spoken. If humiliation was Principal Gibson’s intention, he was getting a good head start. He shrugged when the principal’s silence persisted. ‘I don’t know.’

The principal folded his arms and leaned forward on over the desk. ‘You forget that you’re more than just a foreigner here in Oldbrook. You’re a student of its finest academy. You reflect it. And when word goes around that we have homosexuals at our establishment, how do you think that makes us look?’

‘Bad.’

‘That’s right. Bad. Indecent. Immoral. You’ve left a stain on the Academy’s reputation, and no amount of polishing is going to clear it up. We normally discipline students with unnatural tendencies like yours, though in this case the matter has gotten too far out of hand already.’

Would an apology be enough? Yao bit the inside of his cheek, his throat growing tight at the thought of facing expulsion. That was a mark on your record that never went away, a mark his parents would never fail to remind him of if he went home with that kind of news. If he pleaded, if he made some kind of deal – detention for a year, clean-up duty, a public apology, anything – would that be enough to keep him here?

‘You can improve your chances by telling me the full-situation,’ the principal continued. ‘I understand that it’s easy for boys your size and appearance to get pushed around. You’re a good student, Wang, if not for this incident.’ The principal’s brow raised. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a young man’s been corrupted by an unnatural relationship.’

There it was again, this ‘corruption’, this ‘subversion’ that hung over Yao’s relationship with Ivan. What was it that Alfred had called it once? Subversion to Ivan’s communist ways? It sounded ridiculous, because if anything, Yao had been all the better for his friendship with Ivan, had been made to feel kind and wanted and, strangely, he had been made to feel _normal_. The principal could call it whatever he wanted, but Yao wouldn’t pretend that kiss had been anything but his own choosing. Dangerously, he felt a spark of defiance.

‘Nothing like that, sir,’ Yao said, looking the principal straight in the eyes despite also wanting to leave the room straightaway instead. ‘If anything, I initiated it.’

The principal’s frown deepened, staying quiet for a moment as though Yao would change his mind and revise his statement. ‘Fine, then. The disciplinary office will decide what to do with you – if you’re lucky, you’ll only get a referral and detention for the rest of term. Until then, you’re dismissed early today. Your parents have already been called and will be picking you up at twelve. Fewer classroom disturbances this way, you see.’

Yao felt a wave of nausea. ‘They’re picking me up?’

‘Don’t worry.’ The principal made an attempt at a smile with his weathered face. ‘I’ll fill them in on your situation. Including what you’ve told me. You’re dismissed, Wang.’

Yao got up on weak legs and left the office. In that moment, he felt almost certain that he would rather stay cooped up in a locker than face his parents.

* * *

‘Have a seat, Jones.’

Alfred plopped down onto the seat, sighing as he prepared himself for the principal to go on repeat with the same speech he’d given Yao. Not that Alfred was planning on listening anyway. He had a vague idea of what was to come and just wanted to get it over with. He had things to do. Poppy was in desperate need of a polish, and those newspaper clippings wouldn’t cut themselves out. Apparently there had also been a sighting of a UFO down by the waterfront –

‘How is your father?’

Alfred blinked out of his gaze, focusing on Principal Gibson seated across. He slowed his chewing to a halt. Gibson didn’t seem to notice or care about the gum. ‘My dad? He’s fine. Why?’

‘I spoke with him the other week.’

‘About me?’

‘No, not really. As you already know, your father has done a lot for this school. The board of directors greatly appreciate his contributions. He was considering making a donation for a new library.’ Gibson paused, looking at Alfred straight in the eyes. ‘Provided that students actually use it.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Alfred leant back, resuming with the chewing of his gum and wondering when he’d get to the bit where they slapped him on the wrist with a ruler and let him go. It was already punishment enough to sit in that waiting room with Arthur. Alfred had made such an _idiot_ out of himself last night – what was he even thinking? A dream like that was never meant for anyone else’s ears. It was one of those secrets that a man carried to his grave, and now Arthur knew. God, it must have embarrassed Arthur, too, having to sit there with someone crying on them like child. Arthur was probably disgusted, both at the tears and snot _and_ whatever crazy hooey Alfred was spewing out –

Gibson slammed the desk with his palm. ‘Spit that gum out!’

Alfred froze. ‘Sorry.’

Gibson held up a small bin and waited for Alfred to spit his gum out. ‘As I was saying, Jones, you’re a… You’re a fine Oldbrook boy. The pride of this school, Alfred.’ Something like a grimace twitched on Gibson’s face. With a sigh, it was gone. ‘The world is your oyster if you’d only accept it.’

Alfred smiled weakly. Pride – it sounded funny so close to his name. He’d been making a habit of bunking classes since the 6th grade. The only tests he’d ever done well in were retakes. He was a nuisance to every classmate and teacher. And on top of that… he’d pushed away the one person who ever had a chance at understanding him. Pride? Only through his father’s name.

‘We already spoke last time about your association with the… ‘debate’ club, Jones.’ Gibson rubbed his brow. ‘And I’ll say what I told you then: this is no bunch to stick around with. For your own sake and the school’s, you must cut your ties with them. ‘Lavender lads’ or not, you have no business mixing in with foreigners so much. It doesn’t look natural. People wonder why you can’t get along with students like yourself, why you must resort to making friends with the foreign students. Each time I see you in my office, it seems as though you’ve strung along some new oriental or continental or any other walk of life than your own –’

Was it possible to forget? Alfred drifted his gaze out to the window, wondering what might happen if he were to pretend last night never happened. If he bothered Arthur with a half-truth UFO story, and grinned brightly with pretend excitement. Would Arthur play along?

Gibson cleared his throat. ‘Jones –’

‘Can I go now?’

‘When will you let yourself fit in, for once?’

Alfred sunk back into his seat, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at a dumb question like that. _Fit in_. It was more like being squeezed out. But that was something Alfred couldn’t care less about. He had enough of all this. No more Nancy boy nonsense, no more debate club, no more running around trying to get people to like him, no more struggling to get along with Arthur more than what was humanly possible. Life from here on out would be an easy cruise.

‘Don’t you worry about that, Gibs.’ Alfred got up and stretched his arms. He grinned and gave a mock-salute. ‘I’ll see you around.’

He left the office hearing the principal’s frustrated sigh. And with that, Alfred was ready to pretend the past few months had never happened at all.

* * *

Ivan’s scarf was wrung tight in his clasped hands, the fabric now dampening in his grip. Yao had been so pale when he came out the office; he had almost looked like he was ready to bolt out the room, had Ivan not drawn him to take a seat. And every time he made a gentle nudge to Yao’s shrunken frame and asked if he was okay, he only got a tight-lipped nod. They’d go back to class together, Ivan reassured him, they’d figure something out. Still, Yao stayed quiet.

Maybe Yao could hear that Ivan didn’t fully believe in these reassurances either. Maybe that was why he seemed so frightened. They had done something wrong and there was no taking it back. No amount of apology or pleading could erase it. They would have to carry this mark for as long as Oldbrook existed. And Ivan, he did this, he broke down in that hallway like a child and put them in that situation, had been toying this entire time with something far more serious than he anticipated. He had been worried that his sisters would not approve. But in this waiting room, it was clear that far more was at stake.

The door clicked open. The principal’s heavy sigh escaped through as Alfred shuffled out with an odd grin on his face. The principal called out from his desk: ‘Get Braginsky in here –’

Alfred shut the door. He paused when he walked past Ivan and turned to look at him. It was then that Ivan noticed the grin was worn thinly over Alfred’s face, like a sheet. It was the eyes, maybe. They didn’t match the smile.

‘Principal wants you.’

Ivan got out of his seat and entered the office, the principal waiting for him at the desk. The principal instructed him to take a seat. Ivan sat in the chair opposite the principal, his heart faintly but quickly pulsing in his ears. He wondered if this would be anything like debate, where people threw sharp questions at you, and you had to scramble just to answer them coherently.

‘How have you been finding Oldbrook, Ivan?’

Ivan blinked. He didn’t expect a courteous question like that. Distrusting it, he fumbled to answer. ‘G-Good, sir.’

The principal nodded and smiled weakly. ‘Good. That’s good.’ He sighed. ‘Now listen, I’m going to have to get down to the matter at heart here. You’re a valuable student, Braginsky. When I found out that _you_ were to receive our scholarship, I’ll admit I was a little concerned. You were very quiet. Your teachers were worried you wouldn’t make it here.’

Ivan swallowed and felt a timid smile creep up on his lips, remembering how some of his teachers, the principal included, spoke very slow English to him – despite it being on record that he’d been in America since he was eleven, and understood it perfectly well enough.

‘We were pleasantly surprised to see you achieve grades higher than most of our finest, long-attending students. You came here barely able to speak English, and yet here you are now with the highest marks in Maths and Science. You’re our greatest success story.’

‘Thank you,’ Ivan murmured.

‘But now?’ The principal held up the newspaper. ‘These are grounds for revoking scholarships. You must realise that. No one at home is paying to keep you here. It’s completely up to the board of directors.’

Ivan felt his face grow hot, already feeling the shame of when he’d have to go home and tell his sisters this – that he’d dashed away the chance to be here at Oldbrook Academy, an education his family could have never afforded had it not been for the scholarship. And when Katyusha found out why Ivan had dashed it away, she would weep. Ivan was sure of it, she would weep because her brother was yet another one of those perverts in the newspaper.

Was this what had sent Yao pale before? The thought of going home? If it was, Ivan could understand it.

The newspaper slapped down on the desk. ‘I think you understand very well, Braginsky, that at least here in America, behaviour like this is intolerable. Your academic performance might just save you, but I wouldn’t count on the board of directors to feel any sympathy for you when they make their decision to keep you here or not. Until then, you’ll be dismissed early from classes today. I trust that you’ll be off school grounds by twelve. And try to stay away from Mr. Wang, if you know what’s best for you.’

* * *

Arthur wished for a pair of ear plugs.

Alfred was sitting across from him in the waiting room, chewing his gum like a ticking clock, counting the seconds of terse silence. Every ‘smack’ was a not-so-gentle reminder that Alfred was _here_ , not teary-eyed or sullen, but chipper and restless. Alfred’s feet tapped and danced on the floor in impatience, and he kept making conversation with Francis like they were waiting for the bus and not the principal’s punishment. Occasionally, his eyes met Arthur’s, only for them both to dart their glances away like they had just been stung. Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Perhaps it had all been forgotten. Perhaps, after the lake, Alfred had gone home and laughed it off, had realized that it was only their friendship he had missed, had slept in peace because it was nothing more than that. Arthur hoped so, because he certainly hadn’t. In agitated guilt he kept waking up through the night, suddenly overwhelmed with an imagined scenario in which he _hadn’t_ rejected Alfred, in which the evening hadn’t ended in tears.

And now to find out that Alfred had sold them out? Arthur wasn’t stupid – he could see the dirty looks Lovino, one half of the newspaper club duo, was giving Alfred. If he had to guess, he would say that Alfred had made some convincing salesman pitch on the headline. Maybe even tipped Lovino and Feliciano as to where to get their front page photo. Who knew why or what for, but it wouldn’t be the first time Alfred sabotaged the club.

When Arthur was finally called in, he took a deep breath, ready to spill out his defence to Principal Gibson.

‘Sir –’

‘Before you start, Kirkland,’ the principal interrupted, ‘let me make my case.’

Arthur pursed his lips. He listened through an expected lecture on public decency, curtly nodding through a speech about the reputation of Oldbrook Academy and how its ‘character’ is only as good as those of its students, how Arthur’s chances in getting into a prestigious university were close to nil now that he had this mark of suspicious behaviour on his record. Except –

‘I’m not even involved!’

Principal Gibson paused and gave Arthur a stern look. ‘You’re in the middle of it all, Kirkland, and there’s no denying it.’

‘So I happen to run the club those two are in.’ Arthur pointed to the newspaper on the desk. ‘Why does that implicate me in _that_? Sir, I run Oldbrook’s best performing debate club since 1945! We won second place at state finals!’

‘Yes, and according to this newspaper article, _only_ second place due to all the time spent frolicking around.’

‘Newspaper article? It’s a bloody tabloid!’

Principal Gibson raised a judgemental brow at him. Arthur cleared his throat and kept his voice level.

‘It’s a tabloid, sir.’

‘I’m aware of the school paper’s reputation. But as you must know, where there’s smoke –’

‘There’s fire, yes, I’m aware.’

Principal Gibson’s mouth twitched. ‘We may even have evidence of fire in this ‘tabloid’, as you call it. Have you read it?’ In response to Arthur’s puzzled frown, the principal picked up the newspaper and began to read it out: ‘A student, who has asked to remain anonymous, claims to have seen Arthur Kirkland, the head of the debate club, hurrying a man into his room from his balcony window at odd hours into the night sometime in October. Perhaps school and leisure got mixed up along the way to give us a club that was more secret rendezvous than it was debate.’

Arthur’s ears grew hot. ‘I’d hardly call that evidence.’

‘And I would agree with you on that. But the damage is already done, and it will continue on if we don’t take action. We don’t take these offences lightly, Kirkland. As an adult, you could face jail-time.’

‘Is that what you told Alfred, too?’ Arthur snapped. ‘Or was your pocket too full of his father’s money to care?’

Principal Gibson’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward over his desk. ‘Maybe you should start bargaining for how much longer you can stay here instead. My patience is running thin, and so is my tolerance for your talking back.’

Arthur sighed through his nose and relented, if only for those few minutes in which he reverted back to formalities, carefully apologizing and showing fake remorse for things he didn’t do. Whether or not Principal Gibson bought it didn’t matter. In Oldbrook, it was all about appearances. Arthur would have to attend detention for the rest of term. He, and the others, would have to make a formal apology in the school paper’s final publication. The debate club would be disbanded, and any further suspicious behaviour would result in expulsion. A neat little referral would go into his school record. Universities would think twice before accepting him.

Walking out of the principal’s office, Arthur was met with curious glances. He ignored them and took his seat. Francis was called into the office, leaving Alfred without someone to pre-occupy himself with. In classic Alfred-fashion, he leaned over towards Arthur, making an excited face at him and opening his mouth to speak.

‘Hey… Arthur. You’re _not_ going to believe what I saw last night on the way home.’

Arthur blinked, noticing that despite the jittery attitude, Alfred’s eyes never quite met his. Perhaps Alfred felt guilty for selling the club out, perhaps he felt cut open and exposed to the light like he was in that nightmare of his. But what was certain was that neither of them wanted to talk about it. In some way, this was their forgiveness of each other – to forgive, and most importantly, to _forget_. And so, without failing to irritably sigh as Arthur might have once done on a school bus long ago, he replied: ‘Try me.’

* * *

Yao clutched at his stomach, puke almost rising up his throat when the lunch bell rang. He leaned back against the wall of the bathroom stall, withholding a nauseous groan and wishing for time to go by faster – or even better, backwards. Back before the principal had called him in for a humiliating talk, before this morning had ever happened, before he had ever done something as foolish as kiss Ivan out in the open.

He watched Ivan’s shifting shadow lurking just outside the stall, shuffling around with uncertainty. Yao had forgotten that wherever he went, Ivan would follow. They had both gone back to class after the principal finished with their talks, though Yao couldn’t stand a minute of it. A student sitting behind him had kept touching him, refusing to leave him alone, and all around Yao could feel eyes on him. He felt ill and left for the bathroom, for whatever few minutes of class were left. He wanted this opportunity to breathe, for a moment, to have this small and safe square of space just to himself. But now booming voices bombarded the hallway outside; soon they would be pouring in.

Ivan knocked gently on the door. ‘Yao, are you okay?’

Yao unlocked the stall with trembling hands and opened it by a peek, allowing Ivan’s towering frame to peer in. ‘I think it’s best if we stay in here,’ Yao croaked out. Every burst of laughter from the corridors set his stomach into a tighter coil. His hands itched to shut the door and lock it, had it not been for Ivan’s worried face pressed through the doorway.

‘Aren’t your parents picking you up around now? They’ll be outside –’

‘They can wait,’ Yao snapped. He flinched when someone started singing in the hallway. ‘Just, get in here. Or grab another stall, I don’t care. They’ll come in here and try to mess with us if we don’t get out of sight.’

‘Then let’s go outside.’ Ivan reached his hand in to touch Yao’s. A sweet but sad smile tugged at Ivan’s lips. ‘It’s okay. We’ve already been told off once. What will one more lecture from our families do?’

‘A lot. And if you’re so keen on going, fine. Stay out there.’

Ivan protested as soon as Yao started closing the door on him. He managed to get a shoulder squeezed in, a helpless look on his face when he asked to Yao to let him in. Yao complied, opening the door just enough to let Ivan in. He shut and locked the door promptly after, pulling Ivan to the side of the stall. ‘Stay quiet and keep your feet on this side, so they don’t see you too easily. And duck your head down.’

‘How long are we staying here for?’

Yao shrugged, crossing his arms and shrinking himself into the space beside Ivan. Ideally – forever. Sure, it was a grimy bathroom stall, and danger lurked just outside. But at least he had Ivan’s company, and a locked door to keep anything or anyone else out. Pressing his shoulder to Ivan’s arm, he could almost glean some sort of comfort from this moment, that, if anything, he wasn’t alone in this tiny prison.

Ivan sighed softly, shifting to reach his arm around and run his fingers through Yao’s ponytail. ‘Yaochka…’ A pleasant chill ran down the nape of his neck, the feeling at odds with the anxious cloud hanging over his head. There was no escape, was there? One way or another, they would find themselves caught yet again.

‘Ivan –’

‘Someone wrote on your back.’

Yao looked to Ivan. ‘What do you mean?’ He craned his neck as far as he could towards his back. ‘How? What is it?’

‘It’s red crayon, or something… Lipstick, maybe.’ Ivan rubbed away at the back of Yao’s shirt. Yao made a growled sigh. The idiot sitting behind him and touching him must have done this, just before Yao left the room. No wonder he heard a few stifled snorts and gasps when he left for the bathroom.

‘What does it say?’

Ivan hummed, pretending to be lost in thought to buy time. He continued to scrub at the markings. Yao turned around.

‘What does it say?’

‘I don’t want to say.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No. It’s terrible.’

‘It’s written on my back, I should know what it says –’

Bustling voices entered the bathroom. Yao froze, his heart immediately overworking itself, his pulse throbbing hard in his ears.

‘Where’d the little faggot go?’

Yao held his breath, taking careful steps further away from the stall door, his heels pressed against the wall. He watched black-polished shoes enter view – one pair after the other.

‘You think he’s here?’ Brandon asked, mockingly. Of course, he knew exactly who was in this stall. He was playing games, savouring them like a man preparing for an indulgent meal.

The stall door shook violently. Yao thought he might choke on nausea right then and there. The entire stall seemed to shake – or was _he_ shaking? It seemed to stop when Ivan placed his hand on his shoulder.

‘Go,’ Ivan whispered in his ear, pointing at the gap between this stall and the next. With Yao’s small frame, he could fit. But before he could ask how Ivan was going to get through, the stall door violently shook again.

Brandon laughed. ‘You sure know how to make for a chase, don’t you?’

‘ _Go_ ,’ Ivan insisted. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

Yao nodded, falling to shaky knees and hands. He crawled on his stomach, squeezing through beneath the stall divider, crawling beneath the next, and the next, and the next. He climbed out, his knees wobbling as he stood up. He saw Brandon and his gang bunched up outside the stall at the end, one of them now climbing it. Yao banged his fist against a stall.

‘Over here,’ Yao yelled, though part of him wished he hadn’t. Brandon’s group turned to face him, shoes squeaking against tile as they charged towards him. Heart feeling like it was stuck in his throat, Yao made a dash for the hallway, running from the following, stomping footsteps behind him. He pushed through crowds, shoved past teachers, kept on putting one frenzied step in front of the other until he reached doors, until the pierce of cold air hit his lungs and his feet were thumping against pavement. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he was running _away_ , and anyplace over the horizon would do. He could still hear a pair of footsteps trailing his, the very sound keeping him going – until he tripped on an uprooted sidewalk tile. He skidded down onto the ground, his hands and knees scraping against the cement. Ivan’s voice called out.

‘Yao!’

A breath of relief burst out of Yao’s lips. He didn’t bother to get up, his body wanting to fall limp and rest there on the cold pavement, to give into it. Distantly, he heard Ivan’s unanswered questions of concern, hovering hands attempting to guide him back up from the ground. Yao tiredly grabbed onto Ivan’s arm and pulled himself up. He looked at Ivan for bruises or cuts. There were none.

‘You’re okay…’

‘Yes, I’m okay. You’re not,’ Ivan panted, taking Yao’s hands and turning them palm-up to reveal reddened grazes. Yao yanked his hands away, checking the road for passers-by or Brandon’s gang. Worse still – his parents might have seen him running. He glanced over the cars in the distant school parking lot, looking for his father’s car. ‘Yao…’

‘We should go.’

‘Go where? We need to both go home. Our families are waiting.’

Yao bit his bottom lip, hating the way it was quivering. He shrugged. ‘I…’ He could already hear what his father’s shouts would sound like in his ear, how his mother might spit at him in disgust – just like they did to his cousin Mei when she had eloped with an American soldier. It was too much thinking about going home, too breath-shortening and shoulder-sinking humiliating. ‘I can’t.’

Ivan’s gaze on him softened. ‘You can stay with me if you want.’

Yao shook his head. ‘You probably have it as bad as me anyway.’

‘ _Nyet_ , Yao, you’re trembling. My sisters, they’ll deny it all for at least a week. I’m fine. And I won’t tell them you’re with me. You can just stay in my room!’

‘For how long?’ Yao asked numbly, not believing he was even having this conversation. A car zipped by and his gaze followed it to see if he recognised the driver. Was he really planning to run away? If he disappeared, he wondered, would his parents hate him more? Or would they know? Would they understand how stomach-wrenchingly terrified he was, of everything, of everyone? Would they greet him with worried embraces instead of shouts if Yao went home after missing for a few days?

‘As long as you need.’ A smile glowed faintly on Ivan’s lips, masking the fear for the both of them. It was as though all of Oldbrook was falling apart around them, the formalities and the just-barely-friendly faces crumbling into snarls and slurs. Yao didn’t know what he would do tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. All he knew was that if he went home today, he might never see Ivan again.

* * *

Ivan opened the front door to his frigidly cold home, cautiously peering in before entering. His sister Natalya didn’t finish school until three, and Katyusha always arrived back from work in the late afternoon, so the house would be empty for at least a few more hours. He ushered Yao in.

‘No one’s home. You can stay in my room when my sisters get back.’

Yao nodded, still looking pale and despondent as he awkwardly paced around the tiny hallway. His trousers were dusted with dirt at the knees, and his shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his upper back, where the red writing was smudged. Ivan offered to lend him some clean clothes, to which Yao politely – and pridefully – refused for a decent few minutes before giving in. Ivan picked out the smallest clothes he could find and left Yao to change in private in his room.

When the door creaked open, Yao peeked his face through the doorway with a sigh.

‘What is it?’ Ivan asked, unable to help a smile when he sensed that Yao was irritated. It brought a colour to Yao’s cheeks, something healthier and more alive than the cold fear that had taken over before.

‘Nothing,’ Yao said. ‘I should have expected it.’

‘Can I see?’

Yao drew his lips in a tight line of resignation, stepping back and opening the door fully. Ivan resisted the urge to smile wider, though it was more out of overwhelming fondness than amusement, of badly wanting to collect Yao up into his arms. Yao had chosen only to change his shirt in the end, into an oversized red sweater that reached below Yao’s hips. The sleeves hung past Yao’s knuckles, and perhaps in self-consciousness of that, Yao crossed his arms.

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re smiling!’

Ivan shrugged. ‘You just look… really comfortable.’

‘Of course I do. I might as well be wearing a blanket for a shirt.’

Ivan couldn’t hold in his chuckle after that, spotting with a glimmer of hope a small reciprocating smile on Yao’s lips. ‘I can give you a scarf to match,’ Ivan said, to which Yao only scoffed and playfully pushed him.

The rest of the afternoon passed by as though it had been any other day spent together. They gave in to playing a few games of Red Hands, albeit Ivan found himself holding Yao’s grazed hands more than he did slapping them. And when they grew bored of that, they fooled around in the kitchen making something to eat. Ivan made sure to keep him distracted by any means possible, from sharing the tiniest childhood memory to even making a sandwich talk in his desperate attempt to make Yao laugh a little. It worked, though the ordeal left him feeling both giddy and embarrassed.

But the question at heart couldn’t stay unspoken for long. Perhaps Ivan had taken a moment too long picking a board game out of his shelf; when he sat on his bed, Yao had a pensive look on his face.

‘Isn’t it making you nervous? Waiting for your sisters to come home?’

Ivan set the board game between them on the bed and started setting it out. At the reminder that his sisters would be home soon, his stomach jittered a bit. ‘A little. But it’s easy to forget about it since you’re here.’

‘What do you think they’ll say?’

Ivan shrugged, wanting to get back to the game and pretend all this wasn’t happening. Yao’s gaze on him refused to let him. ‘Katyusha will think it’s all a mistake, probably. If I’m lucky, she’ll keep believing that. But that’s optimistic. Once she realizes, I’ll be hearing about it from her for weeks. She might think I’m ill. Natalya won’t ever treat me the same, either.’

Yao’s eyes softened, placing his hand lightly on Ivan’s. But it didn’t make him sad, knowing his sisters would treat him differently. It didn’t break his heart, because he knew that despite the shame and anger his sisters would feel knowing about Ivan, they would still love him, somewhere beneath the surface. They’d gone through everything together. They’d survived their escape from the Germans who had ravaged their home village, had made up between each other the nurturing their parents could no longer give them, had made it through together in what could have been the cruellest and loneliest childhood. No newspaper headline would erase that. Ivan wasn’t sure if Yao could say the same about his own family.

‘What about you?’ Ivan asked. ‘What do you think your family will say?’

Yao sighed, pulling his hand away to rub at his face. ‘I’m more worried about what they’ll _do_. It’s humiliating enough going home now that they know…’

Ivan furrowed his brows. ‘What will they do?’

Yao played the question off with a limp, dismissive smile. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I keep imagining that they’ll ship me off somewhere. Anywhere but here –  anywhere to keep me away from them. They’ll take my photos down and pretend I didn’t exist. It’ll be like how my cousin disappeared. My parent’s will say stuff like, _our only son_ , as if my younger brother was always the firstborn. My brother will have to play pretend, too. And one day when I come back to visit, they’ll only give me blank stares. I’ll be…’

Yao blinked, glanced away and chuckled. His eyes were glassy with the promise of tears.

‘You can be with me,’ Ivan finished his sentence, earning a watery look from Yao. ‘We’ll be each other’s family.’

Yao swallowed, wiping his own tears away with his palms before they could fall. He exhaled a shaky laugh. ‘You’re too sweet, Vanya.’

Ivan leaned over, pulling Yao into a hug before any more tears could spill. His chest fluttered when Yao hugged back, smaller shoulders melting and sinking against his chest like they were wanting to disappear up into Ivan. Ivan hadn’t lied or exaggerated when he said he would be Yao’s family. He would hide Yao away in his room permanently if he had to, would earn enough money after graduation to buy themselves a small house of their own, a little haven where cruel outsiders had no place. He’d make a habit of holding Yao like this, with Yao’s chin hooked over his shoulder and their warm, beating chests pressed together.

He could have stayed like that for an entire afternoon, had it not been for the unsettling sound of someone chopping with a knife in the kitchen.

‘Who is that?’ Yao murmured.

‘Probably one of my sisters.’ Ivan pulled away, worried that his sisters had come home early and overheard them. ‘I’ll go check.’

Ivan slipped out of his room and gently shut the door behind him. He carefully made his way down the steps, eyeing the clock in the living room and noting with relief that it was ten past three. Natalya must have just gotten home from school. He walked into the kitchen with as relaxed a face as he could muster. Over the kitchen counter, Natalya was chopping up cabbage. A single icy glance shot up at him.

‘Grate the carrots.’

Ivan didn’t hesitate to getting to work on grating the carrots, though in his head he replayed Natalya’s demand and wondered if it was accusatory or just her usual bluntness. He didn’t dare to ask if she knew what had happened at school.

‘You left a mess before,’ Natalya spoke up, pausing her knife. ‘When did you have time to make something?’

‘Right after I got back. From school,’ Ivan replied, quickly. ‘I was hungry.’

‘Oh.’ Natalya scraped the knife against the chopping board. She didn’t say anything, but Ivan knew she suspected something. He hurried to finish grating the carrots.

‘Done!’ Ivan turned to make his escape from the kitchen – only to be stopped when Natalya grabbed his sleeve.

‘The beetroot.’

Ivan glanced at the counter, where Natalya had set out all the ingredients for dinner. Some of which, were very deliberately placed near Ivan’s chopping board. She intended to keep him here until dinner was ready, it seemed. He returned to his workspace, now grating the beets under Natalya’s watchful eye. He had the unnerving sense that she could be onto him.

By the time dinner was almost ready, the winter sky had darkened and the door made its familiar click of the lock as Katyusha came home from work. Usually, the sound was followed by Katyusha’s relieved sigh, and a cheery but tired greeting. This time, there was neither. She closed the door behind her, shed off her coat and bag, and looked at Ivan from the kitchen doorway for what could have been the longest moment of his life.

‘Ivan Ivanovich, what trouble have you mixed yourself into?’

Ivan swallowed. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Don’t lie! I get a call in the middle of work telling me you’ve – And then you lie to me?’ Katyusha strode into the kitchen. It was in her few and rare moments of anger that she reminded Ivan most of their mother, though somehow to hear sweet and gentle Katyusha close to yelling was far more terrifying. ‘You’re better than this.’

Natalya looked at Ivan, her brows furrowed. ‘What happened?’

Ivan shifted his gaze away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So is it true then?’ Katyusha asked. ‘What the principal told me?’

Ivan nodded and kept his eyes glued to the floor, not wanting to see either of their expressions.

‘What happened?’ Natalya pressed. Katyusha ignored her and approached Ivan, softening her voice.

‘But why, Vanya?’

Ivan shrugged.

‘Was it an accident? Were you… were you drunk? Did someone tell you to do it? Did your friend play a joke on you? You can tell me –’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You have to.’ Katyusha’s brows pinched together. She grabbed Ivan’s shoulders. ‘Vanya, this could ruin your life. _Tell me_ it was a mistake!’

‘Dinner will go cold,’ Natalya said, saving Ivan from having to say anything – for now. She touched Katyusha’s arm, and spoke with a tenderness she only ever used to console either of them. ‘Let’s just eat. We’ll sort this out later.’

Nothing more had been said after that, and the silence persisted all the way throughout dinner. Ivan had hoped for escape when he finished dinner and excused himself from the table – it was quickly dashed away when Katyusha told him to sit back down, and for Natalya to go wash the dishes in the kitchen. She wanted a ‘private talk’, one which turned into a long-winded back-and-forth on whether Ivan had _wanted_ that kiss. Every time Ivan mustered up the courage to tell her in plain words that he did, or that _no, it wasn’t forced_ , she found a new factor to blame. Loneliness, peer-pressure, alcohol, stress. She even asked him if this was all because he was too shy, if maybe he was scared to ask a girl out and Yao was the easy option –

‘I’m tired.’

And with that, Katyusha gave up, sighed, and told Ivan to just go to bed. He glanced at the clock in the living room. It was almost ten – had it really been several hours since dinner? It was no surprise he was exhausted. He slipped back into his room and shut the door, ready to whisper his apologies to Yao for being so late in returning, and forgetting to bring him food on top of that. He paused, noticing that Yao had made himself comfortable on Ivan’s bed; curled up on his side, with shoulders making soft rises with each quiet breath. He was reminded of the hotel room, of watching Yao in his troubled sleep a few feet away, their beds right next to each other yet being unable to bridge that gap out of fear of being caught.

There was a chill in the room. He saw that the window had been opened, perhaps when Yao had gotten bored waiting or when the room got too stuffy. But now the entire room was cold enough to send Ivan shivering, so he shut the window and crew the curtains closed. He carefully crawled onto the bed and leaned over to see if Yao was asleep.

Yao’s eyes were shut, his face peaceful in a way he’d never seen before. Not even a pinch of his brows, or the pensive focus of his eyes, the pursing of his lips – right now, Yao was without worry. It made Ivan feel warm at the thought that Yao was comfortable enough to fall asleep in his room, knowing Ivan would be coming back.

He changed into his pyjamas, shut the light, and curled up beside Yao, nuzzling his face into the dark mess of hair loosened and sprawled out on the pillow. He told himself he would stay exactly like this, wouldn’t move an inch so Yao wouldn’t wake up. It was a mere moment later that he allowed himself to move _one_ arm out to wrap around Yao. And the next, he bargained for one leg to curl up and press against Yao’s; it promptly became two. Before he knew it, he was holding Yao blissfully close to him, touching from head to toe – and had woken him up in the process.

Yao sighed and rolled over onto his back, a slight frown on his brow. His eyes were still closed.

‘Sorry,’ Ivan whispered.

Yao opened his eyes by a peek. ‘You took so long…’

‘I know. Go back to sleep, Yaochka.’

Yao shook his head, his dark irises now watching him, blinking softly like sleep might overtake him again at any moment. Ivan’s heart fluttered in his chest, only now nervous about lying like this with Yao, with their limbs still half-tangled and their voices down to whispers.

‘Vanya, I was thinking…’

‘Hm?’

‘We should write to each other.’

Ivan felt his fluttering heart sink. ‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘I mean, why would we need to? Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere. Wherever my parents send me.’

‘You don’t know how they’ll react when you go home. Maybe they’ll let you stay here.’

Yao fell quiet, for a few seconds only breathing softly. Resigned, his voice sounded out gentler now. ‘Maybe.’ Yao’s hand fumbled up to touch his face, cool fingertips tracing Ivan’s brow and jawline. There was relief in the touch, fondness in how slack and trusting Yao was with him in this moment. Ivan didn’t want to think it was the last, or one of the few left, but the way Yao so easily tilted his head to press a kiss to his chin made him think this was so. Ivan closed his eyes, cupping Yao’s hand when the kiss lingered, when lips hesitated before pressing more firmly. The sheets rustled as Yao propped himself up to lean over Ivan, hair tumbling over and tickling his face when their lips met.

Ivan melted, felt like he was unravelling from head to toe in this embrace. A delightful shiver ran through him with every soft smack of their lips together, his chest stirring with every content sigh easing out of Yao. His heart felt like it was trembling, almost leaping when Yao’s hands smoothed over his chest and stomach, travelling just the slightest bit further down with each stroke. When their hips came together and Ivan felt that the excitement was mutual, he instinctively jolted away in shyness.

‘Yao –’

‘I’m sorry –’

‘No, please stay like that…’ Ivan whispered, pulling Yao closer and feeling certain that if the light had been on, his face would be visibly flushed for Yao to see. He could hear Yao’s breathy smile in the darkness as they resumed their timid touches, growing more confident with each encouraging murmur, more playful with each stifled nervous laugh. But among the exhilarating thrill of touching Yao this intimately, there was the overhanging feeling that this would not only be the first, but the last. It was all too precious, and all too fleeting. Every capture of the lips, every yearning arch and curl of Yao’s body beneath his touch, every shared breath down to Yao’s soft, little gasp in his ear and the clawing of his fingers into Ivan’s arms –

‘Goodnight, Vanya.’

Like this, their time together was coming to a close already. Now lying on his side, Ivan was barely able to keep his drowsy eyes open to see Yao curled up next to him, long after he had caught his breath and made himself comfortable in the bend of Ivan’s embrace. His arm was tucked away in Yao’s hold, open palm lazily kissed by tired, sated lips.

Ivan swallowed, fighting the heavy fall of his eyelids. He could stay here, for a bit more, for a few minutes more…

‘Goodnight, Yaochka…’

Without ever wanting to, he slipped away into the night.


	12. I'll Be Seeing You

Since the principal talks, Arthur had not argued with Alfred once. Though the debate club was no more, they still left school in the Chevy, made banter over lunch, paired up as study partners and desk buddies in every class they shared. It was an almost-perfect illusion of how things were before. But then Alfred would share an incredulous tale of UFOs, and Arthur would dispute it, expected to spark something, an argument, a shouting match, a day or two of bitter remarks – only to face a terse silence.

Then, gently, Alfred would break it. A joke was all it needed, and it was back to harmless banter once more. The reset button had been hit again, more cleanly and expertly than the last.

‘Hey, you coming or what?’

Arthur glanced up from the school parking lot gravel, his hand limp on the car door handle of the Chevy. The engine was running, lowly growling as Alfred waited for him with bright eyes, fake and plastic in their expression.

Arthur pulled his hand away, letting it fall to his side. Tempting as it was to fall back into the old routine – at least, what was left of it – terribly tempting as it was, it didn’t feel right. Something had been irreversibly changed, and no toothpaste smile of Alfred’s could convince him otherwise. They were Oldbrook’s lavender lads now; he even had the handkerchief in his coat pocket to prove it, always waiting for Arthur to blurt it out and say he wasn’t happy with this, wasn’t content with only ever having this hollow shell of a friendship.

The engine shut off, leaving Alfred’s weak and soft voice in its absence. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Arthur replied, shoving his hands into his coat pockets – coming across that handkerchief, with a sense of distaste. It reminded him that he was a fool. He sighed and eyed the stream of students climbing into a school bus. ‘I… actually have some work to do in the library. I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘Oh.’

He didn’t turn to look at the expression on Alfred’s face, at least not at first. Then it got strangely quiet, and when he looked back, he found Alfred gazing at him unblinkingly, in dazed-out thought. In a few short blinks, it was gone.

‘Yeah. Sure.’ Alfred turned to restart the engine. Something about the movement stirred something in Arthur’s chest; the thought of Alfred getting ready to drive away on his own was too much, too riddled in a feeling he couldn’t quite name. He only knew – hoped – that getting rid of the handkerchief in his pocket might alleviate it. ‘See you on Monday, then.’

‘Actually, before you go –’

‘Yeah?’

Arthur pursed his lips, pulling the folded handkerchief out of his pocket and presenting it out into the cold daylight. It was far more delicate-looking than he remembered, pale lavender and soft, like something a Victorian lady would gently wipe her tears with. He instantly regretted ever taking the time to stich those initials on it; they were like icing on a cake that was already excessively tart.

‘What’s this?’ Alfred looked up at him, a bemused look on his face. He likely didn’t even remember the handkerchief, let alone recognize it.

‘I’m sorry for giving it back to you in such a state. I meant to give it back sooner, but the bloody paint wouldn’t come off and I had to wash it and even then –’

‘You did this?’ Alfred pointed to the crudely stitched initials. Arthur could have been fooling himself, but he thought he saw the corners of his lips turn up.

‘Yes,’ Arthur nodded, aware that despite the February chill blowing in his face, he felt incredibly warm. ‘It’s terrible stitching,’ he croaked out, ‘but at least it’s legible.’

Nothing more was said for a moment. Alfred traced his finger over the stitching, stealing quick glances at Arthur and eventually keeping his eyes there, perhaps gauging just what Arthur was trying to say with this gesture. And that was when the pang in Arthur’s chest made sense – that was when the grief kicked in, the mourning for something that had never even started. Arthur thought giving away the handkerchief would get rid of that aching feeling; now he knew that he would have to live with it.

‘You really razz my berries, you know that?’

Arthur furrowed his brows. He couldn’t have heard that right. He leaned forward. ‘I _what_?’

Alfred’s face broke into a lip-splitting grin. ‘Razz my berries. You know. Excite me. Get me fired up.’

‘That sounds like a terribly put-together euphemism.’

Alfred laughed, and it rang out sweetly like a nostalgic tune from a long-forgotten childhood. It beckoned the beginning of a smile on Arthur’s lips, wanting, wishing he didn’t have to fight it so hard.

‘I’ll always keep it in my pocket,’ Alfred said, his eyes shining with what could have been tears of laughter. Yet, somehow, that _always_ – it sounded like a farewell.

‘I’m glad,’ Arthur said, instead of questioning it. He stepped back onto the frost-bitten pavement. ‘Well.’

‘See ya.’

‘See you on Monday, Alfred.’

The car engine roared back to life, wheels crunching over gravel as they swerved out of the parking lot. Arthur watched the Chevy leave his sights, and with every turn of the wheels he felt more and more sick to the stomach, sick to the heart. He had given that handkerchief away, and with it, any unspoken hope he had for the two of them.

* * *

The smile strained on Alfred’s lips. Driving out of the school parking lot, he resisted the urge to steal a glance in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t want to look back, as if this was some kind of farewell. Yet – there was something final about Arthur giving him that handkerchief, something fallen in Arthur’s expression.

It had to mean something, that handkerchief, those carefully stitched initials. It must have. And though he was ready to tell himself it was nothing more than Arthur being uptight about returning something he’d borrowed, Alfred was equally eager to read into the gesture, to decode the message. Was it really a goodbye? Or was it an ultimatum? Pity or affection, friendship or something more, he wasn’t sure. He kept on driving.

The road spun itself into a winding path through bare aspen trees – a path which was once warm with beams of September sunlight and the shade of honeyed leaves, leaves beneath which Alfred and Arthur had quarrelled over that first missed meeting, something which must have felt like the world at the time, because Arthur had been so furious and Alfred had felt so _guilty_. He always hated making Arthur angry, though at some point he had made it his profession, his skill, as though there was nothing else he could really do. He made it into a game. He pretended it was fun. And maybe it was, in some small way, fun to have Arthur care so much about what he did. If Arthur could only just care with a _smile_ –

A car honked as it swerved to miss him. Alfred was on the wrong lane – cursing and swearing and spinning the steering wheel so hard in his panic that it skidded sideways. His Poppy screeched and came to a halt, and all Alfred could care to do was rest his head on the wheel and let the cars honk as they drove by. The radio’s tinny speaker gave him a melody, a rollicky hiccupped song he might have liked in a brighter mood. Right now, it felt mocking. Cheesy, even. It was a song he used to love, a song Arthur had once called _needy_ and _desperate_. And now, funnily enough, Alfred was thinking just the same. Only heartbreak, only bitterness for what you couldn’t have, tainted a song like this. Was that how Arthur felt, with every sickly sweet song and every grin of Alfred’s?

His finger tapped on the steering wheel, going back and forth on that feeling. He could be wrong. That handkerchief could mean nothing more than a favour returned. But he could be right, and driving away right now would all but throw this chance away, a chance at being something more to Arthur – even if it meant living that life in secret.

With a sigh through his nose, he lifted his head and pressed down on the gas pedal.

* * *

It had been two weeks since Ivan had last seen Yao. And ever since, Ivan kept coming back to the memory of that warm night, replaying in his head the moment Yao pressed his face into his shoulder, wondering if he had whispered something to him in those last moments of wakefulness, had given Ivan some kind of clue as to where he was going or when he would return, if at all. But the memory was clouded, and all Ivan could distinctly recall was waking up with an empty space next to him. Like a dream, Yao was gone.

School days had passed by little individual prison sentences to be endured, in which teachers kept him under a watchful eye in reminder that his grades were the only thing keeping him there. And every afternoon he’d come home to a house he was no longer allowed to leave except for school – a house that was now too quiet and too sombre, as though Ivan had died. Natalya barely spoke to him, and Katyusha swung from grief to denial to fury, though Ivan could tell she wasn’t sure _who_ to be angry at, exactly.

Sometimes Ivan considered escape. He would look out his window and measure by eye the distance down, mulling on whether he could make the jump without breaking anything or getting beer bottle shards stuck into his shoes. He estimated the time it would take to get to Yao’s house, and the time it would take for his sisters to notice he was gone. He scrounged up change and pocket money and pathetically wondered if it would be enough to take him and Yao somewhere. Then he would bury his nose back into his homework, stuff the change back into his drawer and forget he’d even considered such a stupid idea. The next day, he would conjure up terrible scenarios in which Yao was hurt or trapped, and once again he’d be measuring the distance between his window and the ground.

He was close to temptation on this Friday afternoon, solving equations one moment, and the next, thinking of Yao – almost able to hear his voice, muffled. What was he saying? There was a gentle knock on his window –

‘Ivan!’

He looked to the window, spotting a flailing hand. He got up and hurried to open the window. He looked down and found Yao looking up at him from atop a closed dumpster, which had been moved to sit beneath Ivan’s window. Yao’s face brightened.

‘Do you think you can climb down?’ Yao asked, keeping his voice low.

Ivan swallowed, a relieved grin on his lips. He reached out to take hold of Yao’s hand, wanting to pick him up and never let go. Whatever danger was out there couldn’t touch them here in his room, not even Katyusha, who was softer at heart than she would admit. ‘Come up here.’

‘No, let’s go into town. We’ll get ice cream. Come on.’ Yao tugged at Ivan’s hand, with a smile that was too chipper. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Let’s stay in my room for a bit.’

Yao sighed, tugged at his hand once more. ‘Ivan, please.’

Ivan could see that Yao wasn’t giving in anytime soon. He reluctantly nodded and started crawling out the window. He swung his legs over the window sill, watching Yao hop off the dumpster and give him a look urging him to follow. He slid off the window sill, feet making a loud thud on the dumpster as he landed. He quickly jumped off, legs trembling when he made it down on the ground with Yao.

‘Let’s go,’ Yao whispered, taking hold of his arm and leading him out of the alleyway. Ivan stole a glance back at the house, worried about having left the window open. Through the window next to his, Natalya was watching them both, a book in her hand. She neither smiled nor frowned; she merely glanced back down at her book.

* * *

Ivan half-heartedly scraped the ice cream with his spoon, watching Yao happily eat one spoonful after the next from his own. The soda shop was fairly empty at this time in the afternoon, which should have brought some ease to the both of them. Still, every time a new customer came in and the bell jingled, he could see Yao momentarily tense, darting a quick glance before falling back into that feigned relaxedness.

‘Yao…’

‘How’s the chocolate chip triple berry swirl?’

Ivan set his spoon down. ‘It’s fine, but –’

‘I have some spare change.’ Yao got up and rummaged through his pocket. ‘I’ll get you something else.’

‘No, don’t.’

‘Why not?’

Ivan looked up at Yao, trying to catch something out of those eyes – anything but the fake peppiness, the obvious attempt to keep from saying something neither of them wanted to hear. ‘You were gone for two weeks.’

Yao’s eyes faded in their brightness, gone in a blink. He sat back down. ‘It’s okay. Nothing bad happened.’ He picked up his spoon and scraped up whatever was left in his bowl. ‘It just took a while for my parents to figure out what to do with me. They fought a lot about it. When I…’ Yao scoffed, in poor imitation of laughter. ‘When I came home with your sweater still on…’

Ivan had the urge to reach his hand forward, not liking the way Yao had gone quiet. But he didn’t act on it. Only watched Yao’s eyes flicker to him timidly, lips parted as if undecided on continuing.

‘Anyway – they’re sending me back to China.’ Yao adjusted the paper napkins on the table. ‘To live with my uncle. I’m leaving tomorrow.’ A sheepish smile tugged at Yao’s lips. ‘I snuck out today to see you. I’m being shipped off anyway, so – what does it matter now, what I do?’

‘You can stay with me,’ Ivan blurted out, mistakenly loud. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. ‘I’ll get Katyusha to agree, somehow. You can live with us.’

Yao shook his head, a limp smile on his lips. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why?

‘I can’t just leave my family like that.’

‘They can’t be your family, if they’re sending you away –’

‘And what kind of life will I have without them? As a runaway, as someone who will always look over their shoulder? As someone who washes laundry for a living? My chances are zero here.’

Silence fell at the table, only broken by the lonely trill of the bell. Was that really it? Was Yao just to disappear after today, never to come back? Was there nothing Ivan could do? He felt his throat knot up.

Neither of them went back to their ice creams, though they spent a few minutes just sitting like this, quiet and pensive, staring into air. Eventually Yao grew restless – fidgeting and looking to Ivan for distraction.

‘Hey.’

Ivan glanced up. To his surprise, Yao was smiling. He didn’t say it, but he thought it was cruel. Why pretend? All Yao was doing was prolonging the pain, pushing that final farewell into the near-distance where Ivan could see it coming.

‘Let’s go to that store down the street,’ Yao said. ‘There’s something I want to get before I leave.’

Entering the store down the street, Ivan’s sights were flooded with toys. Shelves were lined with toy soldiers and tanks, musical boxes and trinkets, puppets and board games and dollhouses. And by the front window, rows and rows of plush toys, which Yao took no hesitation in approaching. Ivan chuckled.

‘You want one from Oldbrook, to go to your collection…’

Yao’s brows furrowed, seemingly to busy perusing the teddy bears to answer. He picked one up.

‘What do you think of this one?’

Ivan looked to Yao, then back at the bear. It was maple-syrup brown, adorned with a red ribbon around its fluffy neck. Polished eyes twinkled at him. ‘It’s cute.’

Yao grinned at him. ‘You think so? What would you name it?’

Ivan blinked. ‘Um…’ He gave the first name that came to mind, though it wasn’t particularly original. ‘Misha.’

‘Misha?’

Ivan nodded. Yao considered him for a moment – gauging what, Ivan wasn’t sure – before heading over to the counter to pay for the bear. The cashier darted them both a sceptical look, reluctantly taking the change from Yao’s hand and bidding them a curt goodbye.

Outside, the winter sun had already set, the horizon glowering with the last few wisps of light. The streets were near-empty, frozen over as they ambled through town. Ivan steered them away from Vickerfield, away from Embassy Row, attempting to keep them walking in circles so that neither of them would stumble by their homes and call it a day. He listened to Yao talk about his uncle’s home in China, how he hadn’t been there since he was little, how going back to China would probably do Yao some good anyway.

‘I’ll get to improve my Chinese,’ Yao said, the teddy bear held close in one arm as they walked. ‘Then my parents can’t complain that my speaking is getting rusty. And my dad tells me they have good universities close to where my uncle lives. And good friends in politics, so… that’s… another good thing. And I won’t have to worry about the kids there. They’ll be –’

Yao stopped himself short.

‘They’ll be like you,’ Ivan said.

‘Yeah…’

The sky by now had completely darkened, streetlights illuminating the smooth pavement beneath their feet and the well-kempt lawns surrounding them. Ivan recognized it as the street Yao lived on, perhaps having been distracted enough to follow Yao here and not steer them back into town. He deliberately slowed his steps, recalling the freshness of the breeze on that September day, when he had been so nervous just to _speak_ to Yao.

‘Vanya.’

Ivan turned to Yao, finding that he wasn’t smiling anymore. Yao’s eyes were betraying longing, like they were already separated by miles of sea and land. His voice was feather-soft, trying not to scare Ivan with what he was saying.

‘I have to go…’

Ivan swallowed, noticing the painful knot in his throat. His words came out croaky. ‘So soon?’

Yao took a step closer, holding the teddy bear up to Ivan. ‘I want you to have it.’

‘But it’s yours.’

‘You can return it to me later.’

‘Later?’ Ivan laughed weakly, wondering what kind of cruel joke this was. ‘When is that?’

Yao shrugged. ‘In a year. Two. Maybe five or ten. Later. When we can see each other again.’

‘Even just a year is a long time.’

Yao pressed the bear to Ivan’s chest. ‘Take it.’

Ivan took hold of the bear, cupping Yao’s hands along with it. Yao sighed and tugged Ivan down for an embrace, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

‘I’ll write to you as soon as I get there,’ Yao murmured. Ivan nodded, not caring for prying eyes and wrapping his arms around Yao, thinking he could make this moment last forever somehow if he didn’t let go. Yao gave a final kiss to Ivan’s shoulder and untangled himself from the hold.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ Yao said, smiling brightly though Ivan could see that it took effort. There was such carelessness in how Yao said it, like he really meant it, like they would be back together again on Monday morning. And for that moment, waving back just as casually, Ivan chose to believe it.

He watched Yao make those first few steps away from him, walking from one spotlight to the next, his small frame growing distant. Then Ivan turned around, walked without looking back, one foot in front of the other, step by step until the ground beneath him was cracked and yellowed pavement, until Yao was no longer within his reach.

* * *

**OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON, 1968**

The road ahead was quiet. In the pitch black of the night, it was difficult to see beyond where the headlights could reach, catching only the asphalt and the odd glimpse of lush English greenery. An indistinct tune softly crooned on the radio. Arthur wasn’t paying much attention to it. He had never been much of a music enthusiast – Mitch Miller was as daring as his tastes got – and with his hands on the steering wheel, he was also determined to get through the nightly ride without falling asleep.

He’d made this drive before. Several times – fourteen, to be exact. And that was just counting the way _to_ the airport. The drive back was always far more tiring. Airports had a way of draining Arthur, which he didn’t quite understand because it always seemed to invigorate certain others…

‘I can take over the wheel if you want.’

Arthur glanced over to the passenger seat, where he had _thought_ Alfred had conked out from the whisky. On the contrary, Alfred was now straightening up in his seat, rustling the glistening handcuff chain linking his wrist to his suitcase. Arthur scoffed.

‘I’m alright.’

During travel, Alfred occasionally carried around a mysterious suitcase like this. ‘Work stuff,’ he had flippantly told Arthur when asked about its contents. Arthur was hardly convinced that’s all it was. He knew Alfred worked for the government, travelled to places and met people he could never talk about. He was settled with knowing there were things Alfred couldn’t tell him. But out of passing curiosity, he had once asked Alfred what would happen if he went ahead and opened that suitcase anyway – assuming he had the key to both the handcuff _and_ the suitcase. Alfred had replied, with a straight, almost solemn face: ‘I would have to kill you.’

Arthur could only say he was _somewhat_ certain that was a joke.

‘You think people get abducted here?’ Alfred asked.

Arthur blinked and furrowed his brows. ‘As far as I’m aware, no.’

‘I dunno, I’m getting the ‘Betty and Barney Hill’ vibes here…’

‘The what? Oh. That kind of abduction.’ Arthur pursed his lips to mask a smile, feeling inexplicably fond for memories of their old UFO debates. ‘I thought you grew out of your alien obsession.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since you came out of law school all suited up and solemn-faced. And started working for the CIA –’

‘Okay, let’s make one thing clear: I work for _Foreign Affairs_ –’

‘You know I don’t bloody buy that.’

‘– and I do paperwork for a living.’

There was a momentary silence. Arthur raised his brow. ‘I find it terribly hard to believe you sit at a desk and slam rubber stamps on paper all day. You can’t even sit still for dinner.’

At this, Alfred laughed.

‘I won’t deny that last statement…’

There was a familiar sort of purr to Alfred’s voice, and when Arthur turned his head to quickly glance at him, Alfred was stretching in his seat, a mischievous little smile on his lips. Arthur sighed.

‘Alfred, I’m driving.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’

‘Yet I can still read it on your lips. The whiskey’s gotten to you.’

‘ _You’ve_ gotten to me,’ Alfred retorted, but he said it more like a shoddy comeback than a romantic punch-line. An amused smile began on Arthur’s lips – and he quickly swallowed it down. It wasn’t really a laughing matter, the way they sometimes drunkenly, often tiredly, fell into each other’s arms. Arthur couldn’t clearly recall the first time this happened (likely because of the drinking), but he was tempted to say it had been shortly after their post-college reunion – an evening in which he had just taken Alfred on his first British pub crawl. It had been a cold night, and their bodies had been wonderfully warm as they stumbled together into Arthur’s dark apartment. They had toyed with the idea before in Oldbrook, shortly after he had given Alfred that gaudy handkerchief and found himself in a strangely not-so-platonic-anymore friendship, but had always been too afraid to do anything about it. Alcohol, apparently, was what they needed.

They didn’t talk about it much, either. They always toed around it carefully in conversation, even when they were alone. Anyone could be listening, anyone could catch a glance between the curtains. It could cost them both their jobs, even their freedom. And so Arthur never sought them out, these intimate nights. They were too dangerous, yet they kept happening by accidental circumstance. One drunken accident after the other – or so they led themselves to believe. Arthur tried not to think about it too much.

‘Stop the car!’

Arthur tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘What? Why?’

‘Pull over! Pull over!’

Arthur slowed down and pulled over by the side of the road, tall weeds brushing against his window. He turned to Alfred, expecting a damn good explanation for this panic. Except Alfred was pressing his face to his window, glasses clinking against it as he gazed up.

‘Do you see it?’

‘See _what_ , Alfred?’

Alfred pushed open his door, the evening chill breezing through the car. Arthur cursed under his breath, unbuckled his belt and followed. Outside, Alfred was craning his neck up toward the sky, his permanent companion of a suitcase still in hand. Arthur rolled his eyes and stood next to Alfred, gently leaning back against the car.

‘Flying saucer?’

Alfred glanced at Arthur, his eyes glistening with a boyish excitement Arthur hadn’t seen in perhaps almost a decade. ‘I’m not even sure…’

‘Maybe the contents of your suitcase will tell you what it was.’

Alfred lightly scoffed. ‘I already told you, I don’t work for the CIA or NASA, I work at a desk job for –’

‘Foreign Affairs, I know. Rubber stamps and all.’

A comfortable silence settled between them, the wind picking up and running through the weeds. Without the glare of the car headlights, the sky was no longer a black sea. Stars peeked through the veil of clouds above, tiny and faint and flickering. He thought of how it didn’t feel like that long ago since they had been gazing up at the sky like this together, marvelling at a flying piece of metal. Now, satellites roamed, _people_ roamed, in the deep skies above.

‘Francis called me the other day.’

Arthur blinked out of his daze. ‘As in…?’

‘Your favourite Frenchman,’ Alfred said, a slow smile on his lips. ‘He’s got his own airline now, did you know that?’

‘Does he.’

‘Yeah, and he says in thirty or forty years, he could be commercialising space travel, too.’

‘Good for him.’

‘Just imagine that! Taking a plane ride to the moon.’

‘Really fascinating.’

Alfred paused and considered Arthur with a knowing look.

‘What?’

‘Being an English professor is pretty cool, too, you know.’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘No need to pity, I’m quite happy with my career, thank you.’

‘Oh, good. That’s good.’

‘No, I really am.’

‘Yeah, no, I believe you.’

Arthur raised a brow at Alfred, earning a burst of laughter. ‘You’re a cheeky bugger, you know that?’

‘I’m pretty proud of it.’

Arthur hummed in disapproval – mocked, maybe, because he didn’t find himself truly irritated. Quite the opposite, he was feeling strangely warm. Alfred was gazing at him softly now, fondly without restraint, eye to eye in a precious moment where they seemed to understand without speaking. Through the antics and the arguments and banter, they were still here together. It felt like stability in a world of madness and panic, and Arthur almost expected to be kissed for it. But of course, even in the middle of nowhere, even in the dead of the night, it felt like a risk. Instead, he pressed his shoulder against Alfred’s and hoped he wouldn’t have to explain himself.

Alfred seemed to get it. Too well, perhaps.

‘You gonna miss me?’

Arthur remembered why he’d offered Alfred whisky before the trip in the first place. Whisky, in the right amount, made Alfred dozy, and kept him from making wistful chitter-chatter like this. Arthur guessed he had not given him enough and sighed.

‘I’ll see you again in a few months, won’t I?’

‘Yeah, but you’ll miss me until then, right?’

‘Well, it _will_ be very quiet here without you.’

Alfred chuckled and wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulder. ‘I’ll miss you, too.’

Arthur darted a glance at Alfred. He was leaning over, smiling at him brightly. The same old warmth, the same old sunlit smile. It was all he ever needed. ‘Good to know.’

* * *

**HONG KONG, 1968**

Though it was his policy to never drink during a meeting, Yao found himself walking back home slightly tipsy through the streets of Wan Chai. The pavement beneath his heavy footsteps was glistening with fresh rainfall and the reflection of neon-lights; the night air was crisp and cold against his warm tingling skin. It was a pleasant change from the stuffy restaurant he had just been in, translating a long-winded business deal between a Russian man who was brash and impatient and a Chinese client who wasn’t having any of it.

Yao had done plenty of translating for the (now withering) influx of Russian business deals in China, had met plenty of Russian men of all kinds. Yet, without wanting to, he always compared them to Ivan. He saw bits and pieces of him – his tall nose, the accent, the pale and wintry eyes. But he was always disappointed to find that none of them were as gentle, or as sweet. None of them had that charming laughter of Ivan’s – and it was as soon as Yao made this observation that he realised he was making unreasonable judgements, pathetically wishful ones.

He got into his apartment building and immediately checked his mailbox. He wasn’t expecting anything, not really, though a small and cruel hope always brimmed in his chest. He had sent his last letter to Ivan long ago, a few months back when he’d first moved to Hong Kong. He thought maybe the letter was less likely to get eaten up by careless mailmen. He thought maybe without his overbearing aunt and uncle around, it wouldn’t get snatched away and burned. Yao suspected one of these two things had happened the last dozen of letters he had sent. Otherwise, he’d have surely gotten a response back then in Beijing.

He shut the mailbox. Empty. Perhaps the letter had never even been read. He had, after all, sent it to the same Oldbrook address he’d been writing to for the past decade. Ivan could be anywhere by now, lost in a sea of billions.

He trudged up the spiral stairs to his floor, looking forward to blissful sleep. He considered not even bothering with changing out of his rain-soaked suit. Unlocking the front door gave him a sense of relief, and he stepped in with a sigh. It was warm in here, dark, so he reached over to flip on the light – and saw that on his kitchen table was a brown teddy bear. It had a little red bow around its neck.

A pair of arms grabbed his shoulders from behind. ‘Surprise!’

Yao jolted and jabbed his elbow back, scrambling away when his attacker groaned and let go of him. Yao was ready to kick and punch. His blood was pumping in his ears, wildly as he pulled back a fist – and froze.

‘Ivan?’

Hunched over and clutching at his ribs was Ivan, grimacing. He was in a suit, well-kempt, combed, _perfumed_. Yao would hardly recognize him in his flurry of panic had it not been for that tell-tale scarf.

‘I’m sorry! Please don’t punch me…’ Ivan choked out, half-jokingly. Yao noticed his fist was still raised, and brought it down. He still couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing, though, even when he touched Ivan’s shoulder and felt the silky fabric of his suit.

‘What are you doing here…?’ Yao asked, in a voice that was initially weak and faint. He chuckled. ‘Ivan, I thought you were –’

‘A burglar?’

‘I was about to knock you out! What did you think would happen if you snuck up on me? And while we’re on this topic, _how did you even get in_ –’

Yao found himself suddenly pressed to Ivan’s chest, wrapped up and suffocating in a tight embrace. His heart was beating and squeezing hard in his chest as Ivan chuckled, overtaken by how familiar this hold felt. It was just the same as it was then, and though Yao hoped he had grown taller and broader since, he found that he could still easily disappear into Ivan’s hug.

Ivan pulled back first, though only to look Yao in the face. Yao was struck by how much more adult-like Ivan looked; his jawline was more defined, not as soft, and the directness of his gaze was unlike that of the shy Ivan he’d met in Oldbrook. But Yao was terribly pleased to see that Ivan’s eyes still had a kind, gentle shape to them. And the smile –

Ivan gasped. ‘Yao, your hair!’

Yao burst into laughter as Ivan ran his fingers through, grasping at the back as if expecting the ponytail to still be hidden there somewhere. Yao had been keeping his hair short since he moved to China, at the behest of his aunt and uncle who thought it too eye-catching. Yao only wanted to do his best to fit in; his home country was the one place he could truly do that, if he tried. So he cut it.

‘It was getting bothersome,’ was all he said to Ivan.

‘You’ve gotten taller, too!’

‘Lies.’

‘No, really! Your head reaches my shoulder, see?’

‘Okay, no, firstly – my head reaches _past_ your shoulder. And secondly, my head has _always_ reached past your shoulder, so I haven’t really grown.’

‘ _Da_ , but I grew, too.’

‘Then what’s the point –’

‘And you’re not as soft!’ Ivan squeezed Yao’s arms and chuckled. ‘I can feel muscle there.’

‘ _Aiyah_ , now you’re just flattering me.’

Ivan shook his head softly, gazing fondly at him. Yao then become conscious of the giddy grin on his face – how, even for the sake of feigned indignation, he couldn’t shake it off. Ivan was here, and it was almost too good to be true. So many years had passed, and it wasn’t until now, until ten years later, that he heard from him.

He cleared his throat and gently pulled away.

‘Sorry about jabbing you in the ribs.’

Ivan’s eyes softened – in fondness or guilt or sorrow, Yao couldn’t tell. It was quickly replaced with a dismissive smile. ‘It’s okay, Yaochka. I was being a bit silly with the whole surprise idea.’

‘You never told me how you got in here.’

‘The window was unlocked.’ He chuckled sheepishly in response to Yao’s appalled expression. ‘I climbed in.’

‘You climbed up to the third floor?!’

Ivan shrugged. ‘It was worth it, wasn’t it?’ He grasped at Yao’s sleeves and guided him into the tiny living room, as though Yao was the guest. ‘Let’s sit, _da_? It’s been so long and there’s so much to say –’

 ‘Actually –’ Yao stopped in his tracks, feeling fluttery nervousness in his stomach, though he wasn’t sure why. ‘You must be hungry. We should get food first and talk later. There’s good street food nearby – I can go grab something from there. How’s that?’

Ivan slowly released Yao’s sleeves. ‘Okay… Sure. Can I come with you?’

‘No, no, sit here. I’ll only take a few minutes.’

Yao grabbed his keys and wallet and hurried out the apartment, hands trembling slightly when he shut the door. He hoped the walls were thick enough, that Ivan hadn’t made it obvious to the entire building that he’d broken in. None of his neighbours were particularly friendly to him beyond the usual formalities, so he could only hope that none would hear something suspicious and call the police. He’d only just started life here in Hong Kong, and didn’t wish to have to start again once more.

He passed by the mailbox, and then there it was again, that little flutter in his stomach. He didn’t know if it was excitement or fear – though fear of what, exactly? What was there to worry about now? That Ivan would disappear again, fade away like smoke, as if he was never there, as if it had all been one tipsy dream? Part of Yao wondered that and led him to pinch himself on the way out of the building to reassure himself that this wasn’t the case. But then there was something else: the letters. He’d sent so many, had treated each one almost like a journal, detailing everything of his life – from the surprising lack of welcome from his new classmates, to the darker moments of homesickness in a country that should have felt like home. Through school, university, and three jobs, Ivan had been that one constant in Yao’s life in China. And to think that in the end, these letters were nothing more than a nuisance, that Ivan had long ago moved on and was only just now returning, perhaps to end it –

The door to his apartment clicked open. Yao blinked, closing the door behind him and wondering how time had gone by so fast. He took off his shoes and set the food onto the tiny kitchen table. It was a two-person table, supposedly, but he quickly realised the space on it was barely enough. He took the teddy bear off and gently set it on the kitchen counter, spotting Ivan peeking in from the living room. His gaze followed Yao’s hands like a cat waiting to be fed.

Yao scoffed and smiled as he pulled out a chair. ‘Come sit.’

Once seated and digging into their dinner, Yao found himself restless with questions for Ivan. He found out that Ivan buried himself into his studies after Yao left, that he barely spoke to the former debate club members, or anyone else really. He learned that Ivan ended up returning to Russia to study biology. He also learned that Ivan now worked as a Science Counsellor for the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C., and that it inevitably involved a lot of paperwork, and a lot of talking.

‘I used to hate it so much in Oldbrook,’ Ivan admitted, a familiar timid smile on his lips. ‘All that public speaking.’

‘You tortured yourself with it,’ Yao chuckled. ‘You were so –’

– _sweet_ , he wanted to say. Ivan stayed in debate because Yao was in it. Ivan melted into a panicked mess on the podium several times, kept on going up on it because he and Yao were a team together. The idea of giving a speech had terrified Ivan, yet he’d do it anyway, just to be close. Ivan never said this out loud, but Yao knew this was so, from the day he heard his footsteps not so subtly following him that afternoon in September.

‘Brave,’ Yao said instead, thinking he would spare Ivan a bit of mortification this way. ‘I’m sure by now you’ve grown comfortable on the podium.’

Ivan shook his head, a slight flush on his face. ‘ _Nyet_ , it still terrifies me.’

‘Does it?’

‘I still tremble a bit every time. I try to pretend I’m really excited instead, and then it’s not so bad.’

‘You really got your work cut out for you, don’t you?’

Ivan hummed in agreement, a little silence falling over them as they resumed with their meal. Yao waited to be asked questions in return, to be given a chance to spill forth everything that had happened since he’d left Oldbrook, because there had been so much. But nothing was said. Yao prepared to say something, maybe about the teddy bear, or the food – except when he looked up, he found Ivan watching him with a small, cat-like smile.

‘ _Ty govorish po-russkiy?’_

Yao paused, and before he could flatter himself by thinking that Ivan had actually read his letters, he reminded himself that he had language textbooks lying around his apartment, and that Ivan would have surely seen them. ‘I speak it decently enough.’

‘ _Nyet,_ Yao,’ Ivan chuckled. He leaned over the table, their knees bumping together in the small space beneath. ‘I want to hear you say it Russian…’

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao glanced away, not knowing why he felt shy all of a sudden; speaking Russian, among a few other languages, was his job. He was paid to speak it among strangers, sometimes strangers he actively disliked. Yet, when he thought of speaking it to Ivan, he could feel warmth glowing on his skin as though he had just downed a glass of wine. A feeble, not-so-intelligent sounding phrase was all he could manage to croak out: ‘ _Chut-chut.’_

‘ _Chut-chut?’_ Ivan echoed back teasingly.

‘ _Ya… dostatochno khorosho govoryu po-russkiy,’_ Yao said, attempting to correct his previous response, which had come across more flustered and foolish than it did humble. He was a translator, a professional – he spoke more than just ‘a little’.

Ivan’s index finger ran beneath Yao’s chin, tilting his head up. ‘Say something else,’ he said in Russian, his voice soft because Yao was close enough to hear it, to feel a little shiver at the sound of it. Yao responded back in Ivan’s tongue, a language that in this moment, felt strangely more intimate than his own.

‘ _You’re a lot bolder than you used to be._ ’

Ivan smiled, and Yao noticed that it had a more charming quality to it. Playful, but not quite as boyish. ‘ _Am I?_ ’

‘ _I’m surprised you haven’t settled down by now,_ ’ Yao said, finding that the words stung as he said them. Why make that presumption? Ivan very well could be settled, and all this had been a friendly visit. Yao was still stuck in that time, in Oldbrook where the bruises didn’t ache so much and the loneliness barely was felt, because he had someone like Ivan. The world had moved on, so why wouldn’t Ivan have done the same? ‘ _Maybe you already have –_ ’

Ivan placed his hands on Yao’s cheeks without warning, his palms cool on Yao’s flushed skin. He didn’t say anything; he only gazed at Yao with what could have been grief, perhaps fondness, maybe both, and it was as though he was looking at something far past Yao’s eyes, as though peering in through a window.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ivan whispered. ‘You must have hated me, for leaving you on your own.’

Yao swallowed. ‘Don’t be foolish. I don’t hate you.’

‘If I had known about all those letters…’ Ivan chuckled. ‘I would have come to see you so much sooner.’

‘What do you mean?’

Ivan’s hands slipped away. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a stack of envelopes, held together by a rubber band, all opened, and all adorned with Chinese stamps. ‘I read them all on the plane ride here.’

Yao reached for the envelopes, opening one up and pulling out a folded letter, scrawled with his writing from ten years ago. _Dear Vanya_ , it read, _I only just got here and already my aunt is on my case about my ponytail –_

‘These are so old,’ Yao said, his throat tight with the weak chuckle that came out of it. ‘And so long…’ He skimmed to the end of the letter, where he knew it would be signed with a mere _‘Yaochka’_. At the time, he had felt too flustered at the thought of putting ‘yours truly’, or ‘your’-anything at all. He deemed his pet name to be affectionate enough. Over time, they had gotten more formal – maybe because he got older, or maybe because he was never getting a response.

‘My sister had been hiding these away,’ Ivan said. ‘I found each and every one in a little shoebox in her closet, saved instead of burnt. All those years… I used to really think you had forgotten about me.’

Yao shook his head, scoffing as he folded the letter closed. He could feel the knot in his throat rising, squeezing. ‘No, how could I?’ Ivan’s hands took hold of his, enclosing around them completely. Yao looked up at him, aware of the imminent tears in his eyes. He attempted a smile. ‘What is this? Red Hands?’

Shy laughter escaped Ivan’s lips as he leaned in to press his forehead against Yao’s. ‘No, I’m not playing any game here, Yao.’

‘I even missed that. The game, I mean. Pretending we were holding hands because some imaginary rules said so.’

‘Don’t forget the foot wrestling.’

‘Yes, that, too.’ Yao couldn’t resist closing his eyes when Ivan nuzzled his cheek, twisting his hands so that their fingers could intertwine. ‘Ivan –’

‘And the hair-braiding.’

 ‘ _Aiyah –’_

‘And the plush toys. And remember that trick I tried to show you with the vodka glasses?’

‘Hush and behave,’ Yao muttered with a smile, untangling a hand so he could hold Ivan’s face as he kissed him. Ivan stifled his own chuckle into the kiss, quickly sighing when their lips sweep and smooth over each other. With his eyes closed, Yao could almost pretend it was still that chilly February night in Ivan’s bed, drowning in warmth and soaking it up like it was the last they would have of each other. Yao fumbled his hand to reach for Ivan’s sleeve, pulling him closer and knocking a glass over in the process. Yao caught the glass before it could fall, hearing Ivan’s dulcet laughter in his ear, lips brushing over his skin like a feather.

Their stumble to the bed was clumsy; in staying stubbornly wrapped up in each other, both had managed to bump into furniture several times. It was a relief to fall into the silken sheets, a thrill to feel the firm comb of Ivan’s fingers through his hair and the gentle nip at his bare chest. Playful and sweet, Ivan’s face beamed when he discovered how ticklish Yao was on the inner parts of his thighs, murmuring and kissing his endearments there, trailing further up until Yao’s giggles became gasps.

‘Vanya –’ Yao jolted, hips tilting up and legs curling around Ivan. He thought his breath would give way, pushed out of his lungs every time Ivan’s head lowered on him. The dizzying feeling stayed when Ivan crawled further up on him, their chests pressed together and Yao’s lips indulgently kissing the tips of Ivan’s fingers, his palm, his snow-white wrist. Their breaths intermingled, gasps and groans caught between their lips when they joined together, hips bucking and rubbing until Yao found himself melting, shivering and falling apart in only the most blissful way. Ivan kissed behind his ear and held him closer, their bodies tensing and pressing into each other with the last few trembling shifts of their hips before they collapsed. Warmth pooled and lingered, reaching through tired muscle from head to toe.

A low, content hum escaped Yao’s throat. Every pant of breath made his chest rise into Ivan’s, pushing and feeling slight resistance. When Ivan lifted his head from the crook of Yao’s neck, he peppered kisses over Yao’s face, slow and lazily sweet like trickling honey. Yao closed his eyes and waited for Ivan’s mouth to linger close enough before capturing his lips briefly.

‘Can I keep you here?’ Yao asked softly, smiling.

Ivan laughed quietly, rolling over to his side and nestling his head close to Yao’s. He hummed. ‘The apartment downstairs looked empty when I was climbing up. What do you think?’

‘Someone already lives there.’

‘Next door?’

‘Taken.’

‘Across?’

‘Also taken.’

‘Then how about…’ Ivan paused, tracing little shapes on Yao’s shoulder. ‘How about going to my home village, my old family home? Barely anyone is there anymore. We can stay there for a while. Unless you want to come back with me to America.’

‘ _Aiyah_ , can’t you transfer here?’

‘Yaochka, you’re a freelance translator,’ Ivan chuckled, his hand like a warm blanket in of itself as it rested on Yao. ‘You can go anywhere.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll consider America. Just not Oldbrook.’

‘I think we can both agree to that.’

Yao hummed in approval, closing his eyes and tilting his head so it touched against Ivan’s. And once again, it was like that rainy night in the Oldbrook park, where he’d felt Ivan’s presence like a fireplace in the winter, like a piece of home found nowhere else. For the first time in a long time, the future looked bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading and supporting this story! I greatly appreciate it and hope you guys enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. Feel free to leave your thoughts via comment, and once again, thank you :)


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